as much as i despise glass-screened devices there is a guilty relief in seeing my mother sitting and scrolling for hours at the kitchen table: i can slink off to my room, as i have always done, but now i can pretend i am not leaving her alone.
My first year here in Oakland, my parents sent me a care package of persimmons from the backyard. They sent a 30-pound box via a bus line that travels between Little Saigon in Westminster to a banh mi shop on International Boulevard in Oakland. Whether it was because it was the first mail that I'd … Continue reading in the mail
instead of grandchildren i birth poems about and for my parents which i rarely show to them i tuck them away in public corners of the internet and dwell in the uncertainty of whether they have ever stumbled onto them never knowing whether the pieces delight or horrify it is easier for children never to … Continue reading procreation, 3
i sat to write about how my mother was never given poetry but i realize that i do not know whether that is true i have never asked. the older i get, the angrier i get that the education i received was laced with the poison of colonizer culture i got compliments on my writing … Continue reading procreation, 2