Âu Cơ,

Today I pushed my fists under my hips

and said your name. My mother says

you were a mother before anyone else,

and so all our women can find you

at the salted edges of their flesh.

   Long ago, before I ever called on you,

a warm pain unravelled and I stopped

singing mid-hymn, convinced someone

would know. Another time, I left a stain

in a friend’s bed, along with something

solid, like a boiled leaf.

   Âu Cơ, even now I only know you

by the wringing of your hands.

Sometimes, you are the woman

in my dreams, who bails out an ocean

using her daughter’s hair,

births mountains when she feels the stars shift.

More often, you are the faint bird

my mother draws in the margins of letters.

   Âu Cơ, I should tell you

we still have our own ways of holding on

to our bodies, like the tea my mother swears

will nourish the womb and lead

to healthy pregnancy.

When asked, does this hurt?

we still lie, brace our knees,

stare into brittle white light.