Tuesday, October 15th, 2024
12:54 p.m.
I'm sitting in my history class
door to my left, phone to my right.
writing a letter to God
instead of taking notes
like I should be.
I'm tired.
My hands twitch constantly,
the foreign feeling of my
twitching fingers tugging
lightly on my forearm
as if nudging me
to write, to paint,
to create.
I pray silently that
my day won't be as
colorless as the sky.
A reason to smile for real would be nice.
1:25 p.m.
My professor rambles about French maps.
I can't unstick the thick feeling of guilt
from deep inside my chest. It hurts early,
I have not broken our hearts.
Yet.
1:56 p.m.
The professor tells us about Dubai in the 1980’s, a picture of the old city’s dirt road on the projector.
My right hand twitches again.
My professor mentions war.
1:59 p.m.
What about me?
What about
the pain-free life
I’ve craved since birth?
My guilt grows. I feel selfish.
People all around the world
are dying, starving…
Suffering.
At least in that I keep them company.
2:14 p.m.
My professor dismisses us.
I get up and walk
out the door
leaving his classroom
behind,
begging God to
let my troubles
stay back
with it.
Once more my mind falls victim to
the thickness of my guilt, gluing
the thoughts deep in my chest, and
just like always they stay,
walking right back out
the cold wooden door
along with me.
card games
the scent of fried dough lingers
in the breeze just like a prize,
rainbow smiles and ice cream
paint the scene with starry skies
young couples’ faces brighten
playing games both rigged and fair
there’re stolen kisses sweetened
after funhouse mirror scares
A young man holds his partner
linked with her at hand and heel
soul bare, she stares into his eyes
up on the Ferris wheel
ladybug freckles on his
cheeks, hair ruffled by the
wind, aphids on the underside
of his candy apple grin
As night falls and the stars come
out, their lips inches apart,
she doesn’t know he’s only
playing card games
with her heart
my own.
My brother flies, but our
sister and I must learn to.
I am grateful for the
freedom I do have:
they can’t stop the sunset,
i’ll always have my dreams.
they can’t force thoughts
into my head, i’ll
always see the world
through my own lens.
But my family chains me.
the push-and-pull of
our mother’s strong moon and
the burn on my back from
our father’s harsh sun
whip the tides of my soul
back and forth in the nest.
I used to think when I
grew up I’d be free.
That I’d graduate,
spread my wings,
fly out of the nest.
I used to think I could soar.
That was before I realized I had
such featherless wings.
in the end,
i belong
to my parents.
i am not
my own.
working hands.
I once admired
your working hands.
Hands rough and strong,
so streaked with dirt.
Hands that feed, that
fight, that teach.
Hands that prayed,
and they pray still.
Hands that
risk their life to
abandon a homeland,
to cross a border,
hands that left your
home a world away
to make this strange land
mine
Aching hands that,
of sun and sweat, and
prayers and dirt,
built my life
on American soil
Loud hands at work,
at family reunions, church,
at quinceañeras, barbecues.
Loud hands outside,
Silent at home.
Sunburnt
hands that rip
The bitter taste of
fatherhood from your
unwilling tongue.
I've always watched your
Working hands come
home to rest,
No strength for love,
no time for me,
only to eat,
and work,
and sleep.
I pray my soft
delicate hands
Be as strong and tough
as you,
My gentle American hands,
such tender hands, so
unlike yours.
My privileged hands,
they want for nothing.
Such sheltered hands
Uncalloused, young,
untraveled.
I pray that
my American hands
have room to hold
the love you never did,
Love meant for me, my
brother, sister, mother,
or kids.
My hands provide
for not a child unseen.
They work to care, to
mend their hearts,
To wipe the sweat upon
my brow only after I dry
their tears.
My hands
won't work to kiss the
sun, my hands will work
to make a home.
My working hands
will work
To love.