The Thumbai Flowers

After he leaves for the airport
the dust from his shoes settles on the floor.

The smell of soap lingers in the room
as I fold the warmth of his body in the blanket.

It goes back to the practice from my childhood
when I wandered in the overgrown backyards of people

to collect the thumbai flowers, pinches of the moon in my palm
that I weaved into a garland. The pale stem of a flower

pressed into the heart of another, into the soft pouches
of nectar for the bees that helicoptered to my face—

the brush of wings a whisper so faint like the slight
movement of his chest as he sleeps.

I pay attention to the small things in him that the others miss
so like the thumbai flowers that no one cared to gather.