Chino

The olla knocked with steam. The masa cooked.

                           She said her eyes are china. The vowel switched

on an aura, a shine that sheens the threshold.

                                          The vowel was spell: an i that might we,

an i that echoes how we’re seen and see.

                           Eyedentity. Ay Dios, she exclaimed

surrounded by photos — niños and nietos — 

                                          where I’m the only chino. How might I

see through my family’s eyes — an owl’s eyes

                           in ojos and one in its lid turned sideways 目 — 

I wondered with her at the table where we

                                         placed one olive — ojo negro — in each hoja,

that worn folio for field corn’s field notes.

                          What does that dark eye in the ear’s husk see?