1.
My grandmother splits a match in two,
each half is one stove.
My grandfather in blue worker’s overalls
drags the hose
to water the garden.
My father carries plywood bits
around and around
his hands and black and blue.
My mother embroiders
cross-legged in the corner
she works all night
spring winter summer fall.
And afterwards they sit
on the sofa on the balcony,
the living and the dead together.
I pour fish and stew
in your dish
while you loudly
speak of dreams.
2.
We belong to space.
Hills of green velvet
mountains blue with distance.
Lakes flat and broad
fenced with other states.
We belong to time.
Early mornings for traveling,
late nights for separations.
Sunny day for victories,
dark night for defeats.
We belong to each other.
Disassembled we fit in,
separated we merge,
sad we make each other happy,
smiling we make each other cry.
And then we set each other free
with fear to become one
as a punishment
or as perfection.