“Puráwto ti uwáken, nangísittó diay kannawyen.”
(“The crow will turn white, and the heron turn black.”) ~ Ilocano proverb
You’ve gone ahead, but I know you come back.
I dream of you in a gown of dusky blue,
your lungs two beehives exhaling
a spiral of bees. I dream you
turning from a stove, knotted chives
in your hair, asterisks streaming from
the pepper shaker in one hand. Last night
I found one of your old letters: onion skin,
cursive rendering of that wish not to feel
everything so deeply all the time. I twist
off the lids of dusty mason jars; finally,
taste each fermented sweet the way you always
tried to feed me— one tiny mound at a time,
your fingers hovering over my bird lips.