lundi 8 août 2011

and so the cycle repeats--

Augusttime brings august clouds;
hawkers loud that pour water down
shallow drains, lingering like the August air
that wraps its shroud of august rains
around our callow locks of hair.

I cannot help gazing out the windowblinds.

in the Daily Nurture
I cut out five little Stars and a Crescent
painstakingly traced, though never cut perfectly;
my fingers are stuck together from glue.
"you are Singaporean."
she tells us with knowing eyes
and the stature of high-heeled shoes

and this — I kept in my heart.

Decembertime brings tempered skies—
jumper suits and winter boots
that clamour into teeming hallways, never dry;
with coffee-coloured hair, and hazel eyes
she told me: “Why don’t you go back to China?”

and this – I kept in my heart.

but even the land of nationality
no longer feels completely like home
when you retain elements
which distinguish you from your own
who cry, with black-coloured hair
and heightened, irritated airs:
"hey Slanger. why do you slang?"
"can you stop speaking in your fake accent?"

and this – I kept in my heart.

Augusttime brings august crowds;
blond-hairs loud that pour into trains downtown
their august voices pouring like rain upon shallow drains;
ignorant of our stares.

August brings nationally-themed singing
to music class— and talk of keys and registers
and I mocked, “and our flag was still there,” with irreverence
to a classmate with combed blond hair;
but to my surprise, with fell complexion
and crying blue eyes
he ran away with the sob:
"you are so racist!"

and it was a sob that I could not quell
because it was true.

and this: I keep the most in my heart.

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