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 from dawn until dinner.
She built dams with her hands, and caught crabs to eat.
She picked leeches from her feet,
fetched water in pots,
and treaded through bones in the dead of night.

Yet still, she brought us to the water.

When I got older, I fell in love with the water—
I let it caress my skin.
It reminds me of the summer nights,
catching crabs with my mother and sister.

I cry when I remember how good it feels.