Underneath a seashell fountain I plait my dampening hair,
each strand a clemency, a frail glimmer enfolded around my childlike fingers,
each strand black, each strand ashen: I am a woman, I am my mother.
The moon, the orchid behind his ear, the blue night—
I clasp it and entwine it into my braid.
He sails upon a sea speckled with cerise plumerias,
which he caresses with his thumb as he collects them for me,
whistling; announcing he is coming.
The moon, my bedroom eyes, the blue night—
he clasps it and entwines it into the seawater.