I. Texas

when i peer into the mirror's frame, seeking home,

it whispers of Dallas,

a memory more felt than known,

where people say “howdy” and “y’all”’

in their thick, Texan accents, which i

don’t own. when i see my old Texan friends,

they sip at their sweet tea

and i stare at my cup of plain chamomile tea,

an outsider to my own past.

II. Florida

my friends call me the ‘sunshine girl’

because they say i’m bright as the Floridan sun.

i wear a smile, a sunlit disguise,

letting Texas fade like a distant dream.

because they say Florida is my home.

but i wonder if you still have those

silly little plastic flamingos

on your lawn, standing guard,

and if your blue sky is still unmarred 

and if your trees still have that green sheen

every winter

i’m not there.

III. China

the star-spangled flag ties my tongue

so that i stumble over my ancestors’ language,

but the red flag wraps around my body,

so i can’t run,

as my people’s history clings to me, inescapable.

here, i watch as others crack sunflower seeds,

an easy rhythm of discarded shells, a pile

next to my untouched seeds

as i fumble my hands to pluck the shells apart.

and every Mid-Autumn Festival,

as i pick at mooncake,

under the gaze of the Chinese moon,

i wonder, does the American moon

still remember the whispers

of a girl caught between worlds,

still searching for a place to call home?