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A boat is there if you still believe in the ocean,
and a country remains if you lie still enough
to believe it. On the docks of Dandong,
a grandmother holds a bag of dumplings swimming
in soy sauce, fish moving blind through a
midnight current. She offers them to you,
insists, and you cup them within the pool
of your warm fingers. When the boat arrives
in New York, you unload yourself like
a misshapen syllable, tumble unheard through
the turnstiles and ferries, a wheel rolling over
its own mind. The first night is lonely,
a single breeze beckoning, a whisper from
the moon which looms so garish in its socket.
Years pass, and you forget about the boat.
Your children grow older, and your tongue
becomes a raft. Native words, spoken only
at night, a moon if you still believe they’ll
reflect something. If you still believe the space
waving within you.
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