on days that gray, neither mist
nor shine, my bones ache
for banana leaves, cigarettes
and roasted pork belly.
she takes me by the hand, and
with a rich vibrato, hoists
me up by my once tanned skin,
now turned olive and dry.
odd words that echoed Mother’s
from the kitchen, coaxing
and comforting, the air thick with
broth from stews and rice.
I reach out, concrete and bricks
at my fingertips, but her
notes strike within me a yearning
for salty winds and straw.
my heart longingly sings along, to
an audience of a thousand
islands far away from my room;
my key lacks understanding.
it lacks the right inflections, forgets
to greet aunts and uncles
on the cheek. my key wants diners,
not adobo or sinigang, yet
I still sing with her, with every ounce
of sand I have left in my
bones, every seashell for a tooth,
to a home that,
once in a while,
sings to me.