My tongue fails to parse grammar
from grandma. Who cares? Both grow

roots deep down my throat. I dig up,
only to find a tongue-tied
silence. Bà ơi, tha thứ có vị

gì? I never got the guts to ask
my grandma if she said sorry
for leaving my mother behind.

There is no living in the
afterlife, grammar corrects me.
I repeat, there is no leaving

in the afterlife, only
my grandma and her daughter, both
of whom do not look like me.