another poem on grief.

another poem on grief.

i will admit it.
i too am tired of sad, messy, diaspora art.

can we not just write about beauty, about freedom, about possibility?
what of our grander imaginations?

maybe it starts tomorrow.

tonight, i am writing grief for women i don't know,
who look like me, or maybe don't.
we aren't all alike -- isn't that funny?

i am writing heartache for lost dreams, and things we wish we had time for,
for a time when sweating the small stuff seemed like the big stuff.

the thing is,
i don't know anymore what it feels like to live in a body unafraid, 
in a mind unfettered by fear.

i tried, 
really i did, 
to tell myself that fear is a privilege
i do not deserve.
it is attention-seeking, paranoia reserved for those who have earned it.
what right do we have to fear when precarity is predicated on absence?

fear consumes me nonetheless.

my friends taught me how to escape a chokehold,
like it could help me escape from being seen in this body.
the knowledge gives false security, temporary reprieve.
i felt something like pride. it keeps the fear at bay.

mom called me today,
asked if i was eating alone at two in the afternoon.
i know she has heard the news.
i hide my fear behind assurances that the sun is present.
neither of us say anything else.

vocalizing fear is almost as scary
as feeling it.

i want to say we'll be fine. 
i text friends to see if they're home safe.
i tell people of my whereabouts after i lock the door behind me;
a reminder to myself that someone cares, even if it feels like
the world does not.

i searched online for how to activate an emergency call from my phone.
a cold wired brick, my lifeline.
i stopped listening to music on commutes, as if heightened hearing could prevent
the unthinkable.

how can something be unthinkable if it is all we ever think of?

i have not cried since Atlanta, since six women left this earth, 
since someone decided to play god,
since anger-shifting avatars threatened me for 
displaying anger, sadness, confusion.

trying to harden yourself does not remove the fear.
it is an abscess you become accustomed to.

in front of a laptop, i laid myself bare.
near strangers held me in silence.
i remember feeling freed - heavy but alive.

and oh god, i know we want to live.

i have become predisposed to grief, to heaviness.
my susceptibility to hard emotions make it feel like 
second nature.

it is contagion and salve.

is there a word for wanting to be seen and be invisible at the same time, 
to scream and bury it deep all at once?

tomorrow is another day,
another chance for swallowing fear whole 
alongside my medications. 

it is expensive to be sick, 
to be riddled with worry.

no doctor has been able to tell me what is wrong,
i think the only solution is something i don't know how to find.
i want us to be held in safety, 
in communion.

i don't know if tomorrow will let me
write that kind of happy into existence, 
if time will soften the hard edges
of loss.

but i want to try.

for the Hà Tinh victims.

for the Hà Tinh victims.


on trucks,
in boats;
across deserts,
unruly waves;
hidden between spaces,
locked away.

they had dreams

as i type this,
from the safety of my home,
a land i was born to,
in a city i could fly to,
passing security checks,
my screen
is as glaring
as her phone’s
must have been—
light in a dark
salvation in a space
for the damned,
the ones deemed
a portal to
a life left behind.

now, as i sit here,
the air is crisp,
a rain followed by unending sunlight
i wonder how many hours passed
for them in darkness,
stale air,
whimpering, cracking fingers.
how many texts did they send?
how many prayers were sent up to the sky only to
crash against tin walls around them?

they say,
“in death,
we are free.”

maybe their souls are able to wander freely over
the roads they once travelled.

their bodies are shipped back to loved ones.
free passage for the dead.
border patrol doesn’t care when the life has left,
when the blood is dry.
a debt is repaid.
£25,000 pounds for a dead daughter,
for broken families,
for eternal grief.

what is the price for
a gentler death?

for those who get to
keep breathing,
we are left
to wonder
what if

neither savior nor survivor

neither savior nor survivor


for the womxn
who does not want
[to be] a hero.

you do not need [to be] one.

for the womxn
who will not
fight in public,
will not make
statements for the court,
will not let the burden of proof
bruise her more
than the battle over her body.

i see you.

for the womxn
who will never know
because justice
is complicated,
is not clear-cut,
is not ex-boyfriends
behind bars,
is not strangers
on trial,
is not what
the law says.

i hear you.

for the womxn
who says she is okay
when she is most definitely not
i will feign ignorance,
if that is what you need.

i will never force you to admit
something you don’t want to,
never coerce you into
opening up your heart.

trust does not come
that easily.

for the womxn
who know all too well
what this poem
is about,
i will not pretend to know anything
except to know that
i will always believe you
because i know that you
believe me too.

– sister

a poem for my mom – 5.12.19

a poem for my mom – 5.12.19

媽媽, 沒有你我該怎麼辦。我愛你啊 。

when other moms
took their children
to the zoo
or the museum,
my mother took me to

i would play hide and seek
in between the circular
metal racks,
slide my tiny arms between
dance my way
between high heels
that i was sure
i would never grow into.

when mommy would pile
clothes onto her arms
and bring them into the
fitting room,
i would shuffle in behind her,
sit on the tiny bench meant for
putting down your purse and
plastic card with black bolded numbers
that never fit
on the door handle.
i learned how to be patient
on those trips.

when other moms
took their children
to the park
or watched them
run in the yard,
my mother took me to the

i would sit on tall
wooden stools
meant for grown people with
grown legs
and fast-typing fingers.
i would watch the technicians
pull bottles from shelves
and place them in bubble packs.
i learned how to send a fax
in that pharmacy.

when mommy was really busy,
i would pace back and forth in the
hallway, to the kitchen,
and back to mommy’s office.
i learned how to
black out confidential information,
savored the moments when i was
responsible enough
to put stickers on packages and line them up in
bags for delivery to
carehomes around the city.

when other moms
could be home,
and talk to their children
about their days,
my mother
was at the pharmacy,
or the hospital.

i would wonder,
why were these people
who were not me
more important?
i never asked,
and she never brought it up.
i learned how unspoken things
can hurt too.

when mommy was working late,
and could not come home
in time for dinner,
dad cooked.
he did that a lot.
when this happened,
sometimes, but not all the time,
i would be
angry with her.
i would call her cell phone,
the pharmacy, her cell again,
leave a voicemail.

i just wanted her

i remember nights
sitting in the dining room,
waiting for the sounds of
the garage squeaking open.
i played this game by myself,
ran to unlock the door before
i could hear the jingle of her keys.

when other moms
told their children to
go to bed,
my mother let me
stay awake with her as she
ate what was leftover.

i would sit across the
and put things on my plate,
so she wouldn’t
eat alone.
maybe that’s why i am
always hungry
late into the night.

when mommy told me
to get ready for bed after eating
a second time,
i would drag my feet,
lay on the couch and tell her
i needed to digest because i didn’t
want to leave yet.
i learned how to love someone
without saying it on those nights.

mommy and i only started
saying we loved each other
in the last couple years,
when our armor was down,
after we let ourselves
laugh about things that hurt us before.
we are close in a way
only a daughter can be with her mother.
i am not angry
or hurt
or sad
just grateful that i have a mother
who loved me enough
to bring me wherever she
needed to be
and still thought of me
when she couldn’t.

a conversation between sides

a conversation between sides

you ask
how sacrifice

you ask
how loss

you ask
how broken
mend other
broken people.

keep asking,
and i will show you

my mother
and her pharmacy degree
tucked away in a home office.

my father
and how he leads in a room
where my grandfather’s voice still

my yinyin and yeye
and plastic flowers
we put near gravestones.

my popo
and how she refuses
to leave the house
my mom bought for her.

you ask
how is this a dream.

keep asking,
and i will show you

photo albums, army trunks, mahjong tiles.

keep asking,
and i will show you

rain-damaged letters, ink-stained newspapers, calligraphy brushes.

keep asking,
and i will show you

rice flour, reused pie tins, boiling water.

you ask
isn’t this America?

keep asking,
and i will say
this is the America i know.

keep asking,
and i will say
this is the life we have made.

keep asking
and i will want to show you
to the door.

instead i ask,
what does your America look like?
how different does your love look?
what does your America have that i cannot find in mine?

when things aren’t good.

when things aren’t good.

i carry fear
like breadcrumbs;

leave a trail behind
so i know
how to get back to

there will be a time
for maps

there will be a time
for arrows pointing

there will be a time
for warm lighting,
soft pillows,
writing our feelings.

but for now,
there is dark.
there is cold.
there is never-ending

for now,
there are bedsheets.

for now,
there are silver spoons,
frozen fingers,
half-eaten pints of ice cream.

for now,
there are tear-soaked

for now,
there is sleep.

and when the morning comes
it is still dark.
it is still cold.
it is still silent.



i have choked
on questions–
felt lumps in my throat,
gasped for air and clawed at words

on mattresses,
in living rooms,
on doorsteps,
in bathrooms.

questioned my own

was made to think
that another’s
my dignity.

thought that “no means no”
and “yes”
was “yes”, full stop.

and so,
i did not know how to
explain away
my discomfort;

reassured myself
that it was
an instance in a sea of

tried to give excuses
for why men

there is something
so soul-crushing, heartbreaking, stomach-turning
about living in this body.

i wonder
why we continue
hoping or loving or forgiving
at all.

maybe there is something to be said
about the strength
of a womxn.

but even that strength
men feel
entitled to.

for once
can’t we have something
that is just



i am
I will let

i will not
let you
breathe your
into my lungs,

nor sweet nothing
your way
through my ears.

these hands
have held
more than
your fingers.

they’ve held together friendships
and families
and pieces of
ikea furniture
i was forced to

i will remember
these days
that blurred

won’t let myself
that being alone
is not
the same
as feeling

will remember
that having life
is not the same
as living.

i hope that
you will
remember this

ix reasons why.

ix reasons why.

to the survivors-
i see you,
i love you,
i am you.


because walking home,
I grip my keys
as if
they were
extensions of my hands—

as if they could
protect me
like the law

because it doesn’t matter
what you
or what you
or how you said

because one in four
is too

our options
should not be
dignity or

because the burden
of truth
is always
ours to
especially if
we have no

because how do
you explain

because even
those with
the sharpest
need protection.

because those who want
“clear and convincing”
have clearly
never been

it is already
to say
this is my reality.

because apparently
we need
more reasons
for why
we are
a shot at