CAMBODIAN

“You say you aren’t Cambodian,” Luke says the next time we meet.

“No, I’m not Cambodian,” I say.

I have cut three branches of winter berries I found behind the horseshoe of cabins near Rye harbor. I place the branches in a jar. Beside the jar I place a tin of sand, and in the sand three sticks of incense.

In the dark I light the incense. The scent of jasmine settles on us.

“There,” I say. “Maybe we will be safe.”

“You made a shrine,” he says, “like your grandmother does.”

I look at my hands that collected the branches. One rests in the other.