after Li-Young Lee
I listen to you past the sleeping hour and find comfort
in the hush of your caged voice, and the sense
you make of this world. Nightly, you tell
me the story about your iron-willed father.
You tell me of the well, you knew as a boy, filling
with bodies until your parents are forced to accept
it’s time to flee. You speak of the day soldiers
came to take your father and how your mother tried
to shield you from the sight. I become your mother
hiding your face in the folds of my gray pleated skirt.
Night after night, I listen to you
past the sleeping hour and as I fall into sleep like a well,
I savor the sweet hush of your voice. I listen to you
past the sleeping hour and hear a kindred voice in the dark
tell stories until your memories become my own.