My mother pressed
a blue coaster–
which she crocheted herself–
into my hands,
as she placed
my freshly-made green tea
on the table.
A small square rug
holes lined along knots,
thin-haired caterpillars
loosely intertwined,
braids absorbing sky
blue.
I brought the
soft graph paper
as I moved
to Ithaca,
fibrous screams
of history,
documenting
a mother’s love.
And I look
upon the blue
chromis hooked
on the wall,
a moving canvas
of memories,
of mung bean soup,
of home,
of my mother.