awoken, where I am
six hours, the highways different because
I am halfway around the world, bricks
simultaneously red and grey, let me sleep
no, come in—they are all waiting
I have never been here, clouds grey overhead too
come in, yes, I am too foreign, only the eyes are the same
but even they are different. where are we, they ask
we squat over ditches in the ground
humanized only by grey tiles laid around them
covered in pools of liquid—is it water or something else
I ask. yet I go anyway, because there is nowhere else
cousins cleaned it, mother tells, but still uncertain
glad I don’t have such chores, or wishing
I were less privileged, unsure, in a new place still
only a few minutes ago
we sit
around a low table, adults and children alike
because there is no more room but we are all
here, the tofu with vegetables, steam
rising from the only warmth that can be afforded
the chairs in front of thick plastic curtains, dyed yellow
by the monotonous and monumental passing
of years—there is never room for new
at night, only one bed
per family, I doze off
not knowing where I am, but in this room
mother sat, decades ago, spilling ink into the wee
hours of the morning, one new shirt every year
the sleeve, pure orange of sunrise, dyed black in fury
pain of loss, for there will only be one, still resonates
in the air, from the high window—but they have light bulbs now
and a whirling fan that I want to be afraid of
but can’t because it feels wrong
to fear
they give me water to drink, tell me
my dialect is too mandarin. I listen to
their provincial accents, embarrassed
that I am different, yet I know
that to them I am still child, beloved, allow me
everything, more than I deserve
before farewells, take this with you
you’ll never find it in Beijing—no, you are
too generous, wish you best of luck
I will be back in years, but no one fills in the number because
some wiser than me know I am still foreign
even in love
space passes, time passes, then
through wires strung beneath the sea
and reflections into space, hear their voices again
chickens, a garden, fields of untranslatable crop names
unsold harvests, grains stacked on the
roof, waiting, but the uncles know
it will never be sold
another year, no money, no hope. do you need money
we ask, but we do not know if they are
afraid to say yes, or afraid to say no
and all is gone anyway—where?
the children went to the city, and now
only a single red lantern
left
Grade: 11