Lantern Bones

My grandmother’s hands show up in mine

When I’m washing rice

that same quick swirl,

that same patience that looks like boredom

until you try it.

﹁﹂

I didn’t know her stories well.

I know the facts:

a village name I can’t pronounce right,

a wedding photo with stiff smiles,

a ring that left a pale notch

on her finger even after it was gone.

﹁﹂

Still, she travels in me.

In the way I save jars,

in the way I flinch at waste,

in the way I say “eat”

like it’s a blessing and a warning.

﹁﹂

Sometimes I feel my ancestors

as weight

as if my bones are shelves

stacked with other lives.

﹁﹂

But other times it’s light,

a small lantern tucked under my ribs,

warming the dark parts

I don’t talk about at parties.

﹁﹂

When I’m tired, I hear them

in the click of the stove knob,

in the hiss of oil,

in the hush that follows prayer

even if you don’t believe.

﹁﹂

I carry them, yes

not perfectly, not politely

And I wonder

If they’d recognize me,

Or if the glow is enough.