i left
    my voice
         in the paddies
                a gasp tucked
            between the roots
of young rice

my grief
wore anklets
              and stepped barefoot into the mud
                            like she knew the way

(i did not)

you said
you’d be back before monsoon
    but now
only frogs call my name
                    & no one answers
except the wind’s teeth

    we harvested silence this year
                      in bushels

my aunt whispers
    “pain doesn’t rot if you salt it”
so i carry yours
             wrapped in banana leaf,
the lunch i didn’t ask for

                  the sun touched everything but my mouth.
your name still grows
                  in the gaps between my teeth.

i dipped my hands
                    into the water,
     & it knew.
                the shape of you—

how you left.
how you split me
                  open
              like husk from grain.

(i do not eat rice anymore.)
                  but i still rinse it
                                three times,
to see if memory can drown
      in repetition.
                         if the heartbreak
                  can be
washed.
          out.

the wind is a liar.
it still brings your voice
                   in pieces.

somewhere,
your mother is planting
                    new seedlings.
she does not know
                    you burned the whole field.

                               i kneel.
              i bite my tongue.
              the water rises
but does not carry me.
not this time.