Home can be hard to reach

When it is nearly ten thousand miles away.

But when I do manage to visit, the same question resurfaces:

“Quê hương con ở đâu?” Where are you from?

Every syllable articulated

But blending softly from one to another,

And looks of curiosity and wondering faces

From friends, from family, from friends of family,

Even strangers I’ve never met.

And every year, I hesitate before saying,

“I was born in the States, but my parents are from Vietnam.”

Like a record on replay,

The words roll off my tongue.

But this answer only works for my peers and some.

The older generation expects something more:

“Mẹ is from Sa Đéc, Cha is from Phước Khánh.”

When this tongue is spoken,  

I am reminded of my roots.

My ancestors bathed in the Mekong just as I had;

They, too, woke to the sound of clucking chickens,

They walked the same path I did to the flea market every morning.

Hearing my native language makes me wonder

Where everything I know about my culture

Started.

ten years ago,

she danced as i watched from the crowd.

her silk pants and gold earrings

shimmered as the sun’s ray hit

her tan skin and long, black hair.

light on her toes,

her body moved like water,

bending with the wind.

up close, the specks of glitter on her cheeks

framed her caramel eyes.

we climbed up stone mountains,

away from the city,

where her beauty blended in

with the stars of the night sky.