Float Test

In the dream, red lotus lanterns float
by the thousands in my grandmother’s courtyard.
In the dream, the lanterns grow roots,
all the rust and soot they shed twining and
burrowing deep into freshwater loam.
Holding hands beneath the surface,
they shone through the fall of dynasties,
riding the cusp of each world turning
on itself over and over.
In the dream, my parents conduct a float test on themselves:
Would they last a journey across the Pacific?
How would a lotus lantern fare
under prolonged exposure to saltwater?
They knew it was safer to practice a foreign tongue
in their homeland than on the open sea.
In the dream, I was made of ink;
condensed lifeblood
120 generations in the making.
My grandmother lifted me
with her brush and painted me
onto a lotus lantern in
thick, unrestrained strokes,
painted me into a prayer,
and sent me bobbing downstream.
There was no float test,
This was the float test.
In the dream, when I landed on the shores
of San Francisco, my parents wrung
all the saltwater from me,
Almost tried to raise me in a tank.
I dreamt I drowned anyway,
nonexistent roots flailing
against a wall called Distance
When I woke up I realized I hadn’t drowned
but evaporated instead.
I became a wisp.
I became the fog that descends
onto my grandmother’s courtyard in the mornings.

I’m sorry I didn’t keep the shape of your brushstrokes.
She nods and smiles knowingly.
A prayer is meant to disappear when it’s answered.