This language is not my language
and that language is not mine either.
And what is left except
this dictionary I carry with me,
palm cards slicing through the pages?
This bloodline is mine;
skin darkening
beneath the yellow sun,
eyes squinting,
mine.
But the ache of history is not.
The wars carried by
generations
end before me.
The blood stopped running
as soon as my parents
stepped off that plane.
As soon as my mother exhaled relief
and I breathed in her new life.
This breath is mine.
This breath is mine.
But
what happens when
every breath
warrants an origin question?
Home looks like
the front steps of a church,
abandoned.
And what is left to be mine?
Hands, reaching.
Red hearts.
All the times
I have swallowed teeth.
The blood that drips
when I bite my tongue.
Two motherlands
and an accent on
either side.
An eternity, floating.
The horizon, undisturbed.
About the author
Anthea Yang is human first, poet second. She has a BA in Creative Writing from Curtin University, and her work has appeared in Hypertrophic Literary, The Rising Phoenix Review, Underground Writers and Words Dance. Born in Australia to Chinese immigrant parents, Anthea uses poetry to navigate her place in this world. She likes to spend her time driving with the windows down and thinking about writing.