Last night I dreamt standing in rain
holding a new sprout from an old root
in my cupped hands
Hands that have touched many salty waters.
Remembering flooded rivers and mud flats
Along the edges of tide and sirens
Rusty tanks, empty bullet cartridges,
And silent hunger.
I was born close to the skin of the earth
Where the road disappeared during monsoon
And the parched earth bubbled in mud.
The old roots are eager to grow a new seedling
Rain falls in grey daylight
I can’t name the sprout in my hands
It lives only in the cavity of my dream.
The rain falls in unbroken threads
Jumps back up stretching arms in the air
When it reaches puddles on the ground.
Even though the rain drops are busy
In shaping and washing the landscape
They still have time to tell me
I am an unnamed hidden flower
In the rain and dust
On the skin of the earth.
yenna yi 