Sometimes it seems as if we have to recreate ourselves to live here.
TO MYSELF AT NINE
by Samantha Lě
I remember you:
mud-color eyes
blinking snapshots of strange cityscapes—
billboard faces sold you beauty
you couldn’t afford, gilded sidewalks,
sharp turns dead-ended
at a basement on O’Farrell Street,
bare mattress on the living room floor
soaked up your dreams.
You, with savage toes, trapped in sweaty sandals,
blistered like pride,
Second-hand clothers restrained—
wildness stirred inside, stirred
like typhoon winds sweeping
across the red clay of the Mekong Delta.
You, still learning to speak—strange sounds
forced from your mouth like body
through a meat grinder: tongue stripped,
jaws restructured.
You, once surged like tempest, suddenly,
silenced like abamboo jungle
on windless days, curving inward
like the South China Sea.
You, who secretly scrubbed off skin
for a lighter shade;
each flake, each memory lost
was intently left behind
Filed under: poems, Poet Laureate, Poetry month Tagged: | poems, poetry
