cyh 

living organisms passing on themselves 

in a way that twists the way you twirl my hair

 

perhaps a selfish ritual- the passing of yourself 

making, shaping before anyone can express who

 

they are; the innocent carry the burdens of the

selfish who determine what you will be-

 

in fourth grade, i wrote an essay about the best of both worlds-

that i am the carbon copy of my parents, half and half

 

that i was proud of my heritage and who i was

but by the time i discovered my identity, my mother

 

looked tenderly in a way that revealed her fear and a

tinge of uncertainty; you are just like your uncle

 

i don’t know much about my uncle- i don’t know his favorite 

color or his favorite song- i don’t know how he likes his

 

eggs, if he likes eggs at all, if he has allergies or tracks his 

calories because he wants to and not because my aunt asks him to

 

i don’t know what his favorite poems were- i don’t know how 

much he protested when my grandmother took away poetry to fill his

mind with limits and the value of pi

 

i don’t know if he went through his rock phase out of 

rebellion or if it was his way of grieving the loss of his love,

 

the loss of his dream, the loss of his passion and all the things he had

pinned in his pandora box, not caring about a thing except 

 

for the words, the words, the words at the bottom, tucked into a flap,

his poetry, his alter ego, his other half

 

he never commented on my poetry- not like my grandmother passively 

asking me to translate the english words to redeem herself of her sins, or my 

 

mother who supports me partly because she knows better than to 

tear apart my right lung until i suffocate on polluted air

 

he is silent- the way he gazes i wonder if he wishes to trade shoes

and revive himself, reattach his eyes and nose and lungs and feet and 

 

see the world through rose-tinted lenses- because after all, 

it all comes down to the money.

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claire y. hong (2020)