Beginnings

Beginnings

I.
The steam, low and palpable,
and filled with the bitter stench
of soy, hides the figure of my mother,
the taste of milk.

II.
At night, the wind carries
poetry of insects. Lilies answer
with white anther.

III.
In my wallet the young girl's
face curles in the damp
light of age.

IV.
I put my hands inside
my pockets, but I can't stop
touching my face.

V.
The way body language betrays
a person's words, I fill these blank pages
with water--