for my great-grandmother




Lola,

for over a decade I thought your name

was Peling and not Feling.

Feling, a grapheme away from feeling,

a closeness doubling as a chasm.

Even if it is too late, I know now how

to hold the parabola that turns an f  into a p

and bury it in Mr. Kipling and his burden.

In my dream, this is all I have to fight the

imperial army that knew nothing of dynasty—

you, a mispronounced sovereign,

who helped raise her daughter’s son and then

his daughter using laughter as the

lingua franca. When I watch the empire fall,

I can hear the echo of your orphan folk song,

the one I hardly understand,

a balm for this totemic sorrow.