Chino

The olla knocked with steam. The masa cooked.
She said her eyes are china. The vowel switched
on an aura, a shine that sheens the threshold.
The vowel was spell: an i that might we,
an i that echoes how we’re seen & see.
Eyedentity. Ay Dios, she exclaimed,
surrounded by photos—niños & nietos—
where I’m the only chino. How might I
see through my family’s eyes—an owl’s eyes
in ojos & one in its lid turned sideways?—
I wondered with her at the table where we
placed one olive—ojo negro—in each hoja,
that worn folio for field corn’s field notes.
What does that dark eye in the ear’s husk see?