On Holy Ground

Here, the weight of sands
beneath bare feet, dark skies
cloaking our shadows along the beach,

Here, the sounds of deep ocean waves cresting
against our voices, the waters from strange shores
toward our backs calling us here,

to remember chopsticks clicking
in our hands, the sweetness of custard apples
and winter melon juice poured in a circle or two of light,

or here the torn pieces of bread broken then shared,
lingering on our taste buds like words spilling
from where we stand encircled, here

the space, here, the night claimed by us,
a people traveling from here to here to here…