Water Poem

When I was little, my mother signed us up for swimming lessons—
because she couldn’t swim.
But in Cambodia, she knew water—
the kind that cuts through fields like veins.
She waded through rice paddies,
harvesting stalks in the early morning til dinner time.
She built dams with her hands,
and caught frogs and crabs when Angkar wasn’t looking.

Still, she brought us to the water.