Here’s to Cupid aiming accurately,
To true love being found.
Here’s to being nice (and a little naughty!)
For Santa all year ’round.
Here’s to keeping our heads up high,
When we’re crawling in the dirt.
Here’s to friendships that last for life,
And to family that doesn’t hurt.
This poem
Is for the child
Sprinting through the crimson streets
Tripping over the last breaths
Of his father—
For the mother
Protecting her babies’ ears
From the piercing shrieks that echo
Long after the ashes settle—
The weight of your world
On my shoulders
Placed there with good intentions
And tough love,
The weight of your hopes
And dreams
Bending my back
Eternally,Read More »
When I was a child, being Asian-American meant breaking wooden chopsticks over a noodle lunchbox, sunny yellow dresses to bring out the sunny yellow of my skin, and laughing with my colorful classmates because we didn’t know yet we were different.
When I grew older, being Asian-American meant seeing for the first time my father’s oil-stained hands from days of toil, and my mother’s quiet strength as she built a home in the middle of a strange language.Read More »
