Listen to Diana Khoi Nguyen read this excerpt.

before language assembles the tongue, instinct prompts a body
it takes several pecks and the snowy plover chick secures its insect
it takes many to become one
fingering the hem of mother’s lilac dress a dragonfly holds on
upon arrival haven’t we already headed toward departure

I haven’t seen mother in years but find her hips in the mirror
my dog shakes like shivering before a ghost or the hunted upon bullet entry
what is breached may heal if we can survive the violence
estranged from a mother tongue I mistake hard to say for nostalgia
indifference of tides brushes clean all steps and missteps

what might distinguish museum from mausoleum
objects which don’t reproduce
my portrait reveals the furrow my mother carries which her mother carried
no need for lighthouses placed close together
a reflection on water as on glass aren’t they ghosts

sedge and sea asparagus submerge, re-emerge
what happens when the time comes and the tide doesn’t
startled, my mother and I find each other in passing
the robin with mouths to feed reverses just before my window
it isn’t you mother looking me in the eye before you strike

tides withhold as much as they reveal
what is gleaned from film negatives
in lieu of nouns, pronouns, and names: simile
like a tern circling before its dive-plunge, merging bird and shadow with sea
hunger, like mourning is defined by what neither has