In this dream, I speak to my ancestors in the language
I never learned. I find them pressed against
the floorboards, hands knotted in war-hymn. Air
of crushed goji and lemongrass—the house,
shifting with Javan warmth. Here, they still
keep the names they were born with, as if they
never needed to change origin to the pronounceable.
Before our syllables were stretched, kneaded into
assimilation, each letter hard and motherless like
shrapnel. Before a willow bent into stone, a plum fell
into the earth, and a song became lost into the echo
of a sky. Before this, there was wholeness. Every
time my tongue tries to name familiarity, emptiness
takes the shape of a missing word. Generations split
into untruths. Because in the altar of the soul, I pray that
the remnants of our names lie within searching
distance. Even the hollowness knows a home. Online,
I only find one-third of my last name. 羅: to collect, to catch,
to sift. Please, tell me how to gather the missing pieces.
