Anya Doan
We are the color of the Pacific Ocean sun.
Curt cacophony tethers our sea-soaked bodies.
They say it will be our turn but our children already know the difference between home, and
elsewhere.
Shouting into the empty and
being washed over with our own tantrums in return,
The colonial wall is heavy as drowning in an ocean,
but hollow as a tooth cavity.
Welcome to the land of unheard-ofs,
clean white socks, ‘cereal’ for breakfast, literacy.
Welcome to the land where the golden glistens–
Welcome to the land of– shhh,
–like blonde hair on white sheets.
Somebody tell me how to round-off the square syllables rooted in my tongue and teeth that my mother gave me!
What they say is true:
I. the Wall is a scary thing
II. the grass is Whiter on the other side!
Every night, to the crooning of our crooked chords, we sleep.
