The Price of Memory

They whisper across the small bed, 
brown leathered hands clasped. 
A hot wind roils the curtains. Behind

the scent of jasmine, the acrid 
residue of smoke. In a room
bright with pop-star posters, 

a daughter strains to hear the cadence 
of the past, the sing-song rhythms-- 
the language she only understands 

in the space between wakefulness
and sleep. She clings to her pillow,
tries to put a name to what's been 

lost. But her tongue was never taught
to shape the sounds of bitterness. 
So many conversations broken

by the silence of denial.
She picks her way carefully; 
speaks in perfect imitation 

of her American schoolmates, 
watches her parent's amber eyes 
fill with longing and quiet pride.