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Three o'clock we unhinge
all of the doors and windows
stick our heads out to listen
for the lavender of a crow's call.
Crops with names unknown wipe
their feet on the doormat before
entering our threshold.
Their fingers smell like oranges.
I see a dust mote dipping
into the lychee tree that
is swollen with Chinese jackfruit,
Mother's favorite.

Mother said that on the
seventh day she would
return to earth as a crow.
We leave the porch light on
seven days after we hang
a lavender wreath on
her closed wooden door.
That night we sweep up
the dust collected in
every corner of our home.

For seven days we
eat only fruits to
make our insides
so mother
can spot us like
two crows
in a wheat field.
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Author:Won, Frances
Publication:Bamboo Ridge, Journal of Hawai'i Literature and Arts
Article Type:Poem
Date:Sep 22, 2013
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