My mom told me it would be pointless
to visit her hometown. It’d all be more
concrete-paved and industrial and
everything’d be bulldozed over,
with even more surface area, like an origami crane
unfolded slowly, covered with old creases
and the fingerprints of people you don't know.
Because the people you know
are not waiting for you.
She’d tell me about her old house with
the ducks and chickens and still-warm eggs and
those two farm cats, a petite calico and
a sunset-covered tabby that bore a striking
resemblance to my own.
They ate leftover rice with meat juice
and sweet milk. Two hearts curled up,
at rest like cotton balls in the overgrown fields.
I hold onto these things with a tender hand
and write them down, to make sure
they don’t disappear. Some nights
I look deep into my cat’s eyes and
believe in reincarnation.