Kigan-mon— a silent plea for harvest in Buddhist prayer beads your calloused fingers dig deep grooves into the rotting flesh of sugarcane— daughter of typhoons, you dipped your toes …
Category:
Poetry
it only felt like yesterday when we were huddling under the citrus lights every shallow promise disappearing when the monsoon rain kissed our pale bodies you let me read …
Radicalization was sitting at the edge of a bathhouse, wading water just warm enough on the skin. With my elbows sprawled behind me, head tilted back, I soaked in the …
Her body is not her own. From her legs to her backbone, It is the property of another, Who forces her to be the other: The outsider, the perpetual …
it just took 4 of my 8-year-old steps to walk past it on the way to Chinese school every week the narrowest building almost an afterthought its deep green façade …
Reading Joy Kogawa’s poem on the Evacuation, I suddenly awaken to the fact that the people I knew who knew her are gone. Grown-ups who could tell me of her …
live in a city lucky for light eyed, light haired. fed instead on hospital hot lunch, newcomers stuffed in translation, apartment blocks, their children. every reserve disappears to return for …
So this is how it feels, ears an errant visitor amidst hushed conversations under the orange lamp whose glow glances your skin, shimmering ever so slightly. Like the kumquat in …
look at this rocky playground, where we scraped knees to leave them bleeding, then outgrown the stagnant navy blue and white uniforms, blown into different directions, flying away- until divine …
i twist the spines of my mother’s green onion stems products of caramelized trauma spun into salted relationships through my busy thumbs gluing her past to my present in a …