Imperial

By Angela Rona Estavillo

Imperial
for my great–grandmother

Lola,
for over a decade I thought your name
was Peling and not Feling.
Feling, a grapheme away from feeling,
a closeness doubling as a chasm.
Even if it is too late, I know now how
to hold the parabola that turns an f into a p
and bury it in Mr. Kipling and his burden.
In my dream, this is all I have to fight the
imperial army that knew nothing of dynasty —
you, a mispronounced sovereign,
who helped raise her daughter’s son and then
his daughter using laughter as the
lingua franca. When I watch the empire fall,
I can hear the echo of your orphan folk song,
the one I hardly understand,
a balm for this totemic sorrow.