Hunger Wakes Me

In the hours between midnight and morning
I dream of shadowed hills, the scent of night-
blooming datura spilling over our old home.

What was the question that nudged
me awake, that I know still
has no answer? 

I have a memory of pork 
smoked over embers, the mumbled
prayers of mambunong, rice

wine scattered on the ground 
for blessing; knives slicing meat
to dress in a bowl with lime and pepper.

My tongue is always bathed
with longing. Daughter, I can't remember 
anymore what it was that severed 

us from each other. The language
for what I want to say scrolls
into the ether but its root

is still there. I want to believe
the broth hasn't cooled. I want to believe
we still drink from the same bowl.