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 …
Category:
Poetry
One step through the door and the stove turns on. The welcoming home hands slice Julienne style, tossing, mixing, ruminating on the taste of being together. Put in more eggs, …
I keep a faded box of Chinese language cards on the bottom shelf of a basement bookcase. The box is almost as old as me, the cover once bright …
1 At age four, I entered a world completely foreign to my Chinese roots At the long dining room table of my Argentinian babysitter’s home I sipped mate through a …
I Cumulus clouds drift above the canopy of leaves shading tireless workers. Rows of bountiful produce in a pastoral landscape where the passage of light measures time. Thrifty, makeshift furrows …
……………….. ……………after Amy Chua An accent is a sign of bravery, of journey, celebrated or unsung— a mark of freedom from the slavery of thinking in a single siloed tongue. …
How did I get so blue? Events, free food, and friends galore. It infects my fingertips and rushes through. This novelty lasted until nothing was true— the college kid’s book, …
when my poems come in english, i wonder maybe i could dance in these. big mistakes white english has a way to police the foreign tongue every sentence a battleground. …
I am the sorrow of the perpetual outsider, Carried on through centuries of pain. Still hearing the echoes of souls once silenced, From signs that read, “No Indians, Chinese, or …
a blue moon bears the name ………..of the moon, …………………………….the earth, ………………….a raucous thank you ………..and amen. you cry for ………………….you, ……………………………and your family ………………………………………and your friends. ………..a wonderful day …