Hyuhylu

                                                  for subhamma: evening. a low sun. i sit outside and watch the water. a memory of a woman stealing flowers from the neighbour’s garden arrives like the silver body of a fish in a summer river. this woman and i, we haven’t spoken in years. i want to run toward her voice, disappear, appear in the balcony where we once shared a colombo dusk, a sky scented with a prayer from the mosque. she asked me what i wanted to be and i said, a magician among other things. in what language do i tell her i am no magician, i cannot travel toward her voice or rope an evening or make light from her darkness. in this country, i am alone. i go home to no one. i sit in a crowded room and write poems, red and thick, like the flowers my grandmother stole.

“My Grandfather speaks rapid Cantonese to me. He’s telling me what he wants from McDonalds. The kid behind the counter rolls his eyes at this. The woman behind us in line says “Speak English” under her breathe. The grip my Grandfather has on my arm tightens. My Grandfather can speak English. He can understand English. He can write English. But he came when he was in his twenties, and he has an accent that will never leave. And when he speaks English he hears- “How long have you been here?” “Can you repeat that again?” “I don’t understand you.” And it humiliates him. This man who left his family, who left his life to make a better one. The bravest man I know is embarrassed of his accent. And in McDonalds, the man who crossed the pacific in a freight boat with no papers and no one he knew in this country, bows his head in shame.”

this exact look without fail