My Hakka Grandmother
If time could unwind for you
yet still be for me, we would run
through the fields, feet unbound
and pummelling the ground towards

the earth-house. I read about it once:
its architecture unique to the Hakka people
in Fuijan. Dwellings like wedding rings
stacked and interlinked. You would lead me

through the building’s single gate
and show me where you slept, above
the communal granary. It would smell
of rice husks, like your dark hair

in the mornings before we’d braid it
long and sleek. I would speak
in your tongue, but we would not need
words. The lines on my palms mirror

yours almost perfectly. I wonder where
our bloodline begins We are guest people
without land or name, moving south and south,
wild birds seeking a place to call home.