In a small kitchen with

unfinished walls, at a clean table

I’d write my poetry.

 

Whether it was hot or cold, pouring down

or not raining at all. There I sat,

beneath a small window, where the light

 

went out rather than in. I travelled

from one country to another, from one body

to another. Only just fifteen

 

and already there was no stopping me.

I’d write and write, not filling

the whole page. Happy and sad, watching

 

day and night pass by in a mirror.

I can still see myself: mom comes over

and tells me to go out in the yard,

 

it’s such a nice day. And I tell her

later on, in a minute.

And I go straight back

 

to my words. In a small kitchen

with unfinished walls and a flimsy ceiling.

I’d make a hole in the wall.

 

From outside, I looked like a prisoner

in Vietnam, but inside

things were different. Go

 

and find me if you can. On the table

the book of poetry I wrote

in that little kitchen, my mom in the yard

 

sweeping up leaves. Year after year.

Lonelier than anyone, or trying

not to feel alone. I’m not really sure.

 

They say that’s where you’ll find me.