The Riddle of Longing When to be an immigrant’s Son is to be a speaker of several Broken tongues, each day Leaves you homesick For a place you’ve never Touched, nor forgotten, and feel The ache to know. When there is No one left, you ask the wind For directions. Your own Voice returns your wish with A map of your mother’s palms Spoken into threads of blue Light. Take the long way Home, through the cemetery. There, kiss your father’s name, Bring back an echo of pain, And a phlox. When years Later your son finds it crushed Within a book, he will feel Against his face a warm puff Of breath, yours, then A wink of green wings behind His eyes. Strange, that I am Holding two large rocks, Looking for something else Sacred to smash open.