No one knows the exact whereabouts 
of the ovaries; some things we&rsquo;re not
meant to remember. After your mom

died, you left your childhood home 
for good. Ten years later, it&rsquo;s intact
only in memory. We siphon slowly

through the city, watch the skyline
slide past. Crossing the Washington 
Bridge, you&rsquo;ve come home at last,

where some things we&rsquo;re not meant 
to hold. Tumors are most frequently 
found in the ovaries&rsquo; epithelium.

Pressing hand to pelvic crest, I imagine
the incision, sutures. Steel instruments 
easing each organ apart. Though this

is where we all began, no one wants 
to return. Memory takes its retreat, 
shuts the lights off, room by room. 

Still, something stirs. Life&rsquo;s germ shifts 
Imperceptibly&mdash;the future, a tiny, single-
celled fact, a body humming with secrets.

A Decade Later, You Return to Your Childhood Home

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; (San Francisco)


Hedge grass, juniper. The cliff bares&nbsp;
its back&nbsp;teeth. Stone-faced, you slip&nbsp;
a black knot over&nbsp;your wrists, fuse&nbsp;

the ends with flame. How many times&nbsp;
have you stopped short, breath&nbsp;
jerked from the throat? To lose&nbsp;

yourself in the fall; to have lost it all&nbsp;
to need, affliction.&nbsp;Crank the heart&rsquo;s&nbsp;
ugly lever, set this machine&nbsp;back&nbsp;

into motion. The bronze star points
north but never resolves. North-northwest,&nbsp;
east-northeast.&nbsp;May you find your way&nbsp;

by its burnished light.&nbsp;Here, take this&nbsp;
talisman of good faith. A handful&nbsp;of 
broken&nbsp;rocks, bullets for the journey.

At the Cliff House

I felt the room go cold when she died, 
looked at her lying there, thought how still
she seems. How smooth, like time had erased 
the particularity from her face, worked 
some strange alchemy to make her less
of herself, more like the women I&rsquo;d seen 
in black-and-white portraits on the mantel, 
stoic immigrant faces from another time.

There was her body, and then it was just 
a body. I wasn&rsquo;t there for the cremation&mdash;
they put her remains in a cardboard box,
passed it slowly through an incinerator,
as the family stood behind a glass wall. 
They say they watched until the flames 
were through. That after the burning, 
there was nothing left to see.

I once lost my way home from school, 
crossed mistakenly through temple 
grounds and found myself in the middle 
of a funeral. Greasy smoke, the scent 
of scorched hair and skin that clung 
to my clothes. The whole village, wailing, 
gathered around the stink of burnt flesh, 
and in the center, a dark shape that spat 
and blackened on the pyre, glowed 
white-hot and then burst to ash.

Departure

Isako Isako have you run to your end.
Isako Isako is there an end and if so is it near.
Isako Isako will I see you again.
Isako Isako you are mostly bone. My hand on your spine as you lower onto the white couch. 
Isako Isako I turn the pages of your life and find you on every spread. Eyes solemn beneath schoolgirl bangs. Foot turned to accentuate the line of your body. An Isako for every age.
Isako Isako I bring you a Kleenex. I clip a hangnail and file the edges smooth.
Isako Isako I want so badly to smooth the hair from your forehead. The way my daughter likes it when I sing her to sleep. 
Isako Isako you have so many faces. 
Isako Isako if I could reach out and touch one it would be enough.
Isako Isako if I could take your words in my mouth. Press your cheek to mine and watch the skin dissolve.
Isako Isako outside your window the cherry tree is in full bloom. Every branch lit with pink blossoms. A riot of renewed life.
Isako Isako when I see you again it will be with a different face.
Isako Isako you reach through time to take my hand.
Isako Isako yours is such a small hand. 
Isako Isako the air in the room suddenly stirred. My hand clasped in your lap.
Isako Isako my hands now brim with you.
Isako Isako this page my hands this voice your breath.
Isako Isako I can see it now.
Isako Isako there is no end.
Isako Isako I is you.

Isako, Last Spring

May you not fear what lies ahead. 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; May the moon&rsquo;s full face 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; light your own, milky 
with tears. May it ferry you into mystery. 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; May your body, luminous 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; in its skin, so thin the bones 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; glow through, brim 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; with whispered prayers,
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; lacrimal and lesser wings. 

May the lion&rsquo;s mouth be shut. 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; May its head sink to the ground 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; at your approach, splendid 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; in your cotton nightie, an apparition 
of joint and socket plainly revealed.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; May you stand and be spared. 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Please, all I ask.

Cast in greenish light, your hands rise,
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; tendril-like, to receive 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; a fullness your daughter, 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; drawing near, feels spilling 
onto her fingers. Poor soul, you can see 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; the fear lifting like smoke 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; off her skin. Don&rsquo;t fight, you want to say. 
Come, stroke the beast&rsquo;s shaggy head. 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Pull open its terrible maw, see 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; for yourself, not the teeth 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; you expect, but the gentle rumination 
of bovid incisors, muted tongue.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Come, child. Lie with the lion.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The ox, the lamb.

One Day You’ll Look in the Mirror and See Lions

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; (Vietnam War Memorial)


The kind of morning a plane could lift into from runway and&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; disappear
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; swallowed by fog: wing tip, cockpit.

The kind of morning that clings to face&nbsp;&nbsp; coat&nbsp;&nbsp; wet seams of umbrella
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; nylon spread like surrender across 

ribs, which in this tamped-down light appear skeletal. What we don&rsquo;t see

up top, a snub-nosed bomb dropped into jungle &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; disappears the minute it&rsquo;s released

swallowed by jungle canopy&nbsp; ropy vines.

A child runs screaming&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; trails shreds of skin &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; white
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; feet bare.

Names start at the ankle. &nbsp; Mist gathers in ghost patterns&mdash;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; looking down I see tennis shoes, notched rubber soles.

How sleek, invisible the undergrowth

swift multiplicity of black granite pushing against itself, pressed into earth
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; feet step independent of volition

faces made flat &nbsp; shiny &nbsp;&nbsp; pressed into stone.

Harsh geese overhead mistaken for gulls, firebirds 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; (no we&rsquo;ve not forgotten)

what mistaken for silence becomes a fall, a slide without side rails

each step notched into the next widening, stacking granite higher
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; above the head&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; and heavier.

Atop the head there&rsquo;s a blue of sorts&nbsp;&nbsp; but I see only gray
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; fog that clings, will not let go

that mistaken for names&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; (propagates is the word) swiftly replicates itself
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; widens then splits.

Breathing&rsquo;s difficult now. The constriction of apex, its terrible reach, spectacle seamed 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; black on black

made ghosts, made echoes, made a red plastic geranium crimped in half &nbsp;&nbsp; draggled in gravel 

a sore remnant.

Rain runs fingers through names.&nbsp;&nbsp; Like all good men, keeps accounts from the house
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; there on the hill&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; what you see once lifted from the pit

slatted runway into air, up top where breathing&rsquo;s easier, where color&rsquo;s turned back.

Up steps up pillars &nbsp;&nbsp; behind the white lattice, Mr. Lincoln in his counting house
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; eating bread and honey.

Granite seeps from sight as through a sieve
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; gashes in vision sucking it past in pieces,&nbsp; splinters

the sign for a man whose name begins with a cross 
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; circled off&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; a closed circuit&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; pricked as if by the point of a knife.

Snow crunches&nbsp;&nbsp; under foot &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; again the grackle of geese.

Mia Ayumi Malhotra

A Decade Later, You Return to Your Childhood Home

At the Cliff House

Departure

Isako, Last Spring

One Day You’ll Look in the Mirror and See Lions

The Kind of Morning