instead florida palms and pines,
home sits in grid-rows of asphalt shingles and gleaming canals,
no grand mountains, no ancient valleys.
home is young and foreign––like me, sometimes,
who was born on this soil but sidelined to kick the dirt.
i dug for roots and found only earthworms,
i buried acorns and no great oaks emerged,
not in this lifetime.
but i loved lurking with gators around the lake.
i liked how easy it was to get lost in mirror images,
the house across the water is just like mine
and my neighbor’s. and my neighbor’s neighbor’s.
summer sun streams through impact windows.
drenched in gold that bounces off white walls
and waxed wood floors, we sit alone.
we cannot name each other.
so yes i am strange but home is stranger,
home is blurry like reflections in the lake.
futile to grasp for what will not hold me,
i close my eyes and listen to the wind.
with the cicadas, it almost sounds like motherland
or so i’ve heard––i wouldn’t know, i haven’t been,
i’ve been at home writing about cut fruit,
biting my thumb and loitering on the doorstep of swampwater florida,
gesturing wildly in search of roots i’ve never known.
this home does not answer my knock.
the blinds are shut, the owner has skipped town on an airboat,
they wouldn’t have opened the door regardless.
still, i miss the palm trees when i drive north,
how they bloom and sway on every block.
i miss my family and their loud voices,
how my parents peel my fruit so i can plant seeds of my own.
my grandparents pick up the phone on the first ring,
their neighbor’s baby daughter, Yumi, calls me jiejie.
across 8500 miles, we create belonging:
arms wide open, palms facing the same sky.
