JEDDIE SOPHRONIUS

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Photo by Jeff Sirkin

ACCENT

In my home country I get told

to go back to my country.

In Zhōngguó, I’m not Zhōngguó rén.

Even I don’t get along with my Chinese friends.

The mountains remain the only place

where no one asks, “What are you doing here?”

And everywhere else,

I keep my head down, try to pass with the crowd.

Why am I doing all this?

Government exploits the land.

My kind get blamed for stealing.

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*** ** ***

AFTER WRITING ABOUT THE MASSACRE

of my people, my friend asks, Why do you

cling to the past? And I don’t blame him.

History is only history if

children sing the melody of it

pass the lyrics along to their future

children like secondhand grief. I pour

a glass of whisky and I don’t drink it

let my nose do the tasting. I don’t

smoke in the United States. That’s a lie.

I save my cigarettes for longing.

And tonight is one of those nights. I walk

outside to greet this foreign country—

hints of smoke and fire dance in the skin-

biting air. In the morning, the fumes

scatter into calm dreams. When everyone

is awake, it is my turn to sleep.

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*** ** ***

IMMIGRATION/INTERROGATION

is an immigrant still an immigrant

without citizenship? is an immigrant

still an immigrant without speaking more

than one language? is an immigrant still

an immigrant without an origin

country to call home? is an immigrant

still an immigrant without recalling

the border crossing? is an immigrant

still an immigrant without ever looking

out from a plane’s window, a boat’s hull, or

a truck’s bed floor? is an immigrant still

an immigrant without the foreign gods?

is an immigrant still an immigrant

without the invisible burden? is

an immigrant still an immigrant without

the silent bowings? is an immigrant

still an immigrant without living to

survive? is an immigrant still an

immigrant without the blurred memories?

is an immigrant still an immigrant

without the burying? is an immigrant

still an immigrant without the nightmare

of drowning in an ocean during a

thunderstorm? is an immigrant still an

immigrant without the unnamed loneliness?

is an immigrant still an immigrant

without the desire for a brighter

future? is an immigrant still an

immigrant without the constant hunger?

is an immigrant still an immigrant

without the quietness hidden beneath

a smile? is an immigrant still an

immigrant without dreaming of home,

even when not knowing where it is?

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*** ** ***

WHERE DO YOU SEE YOURSELF IN FIVE YEARS?

Not dead. Not running. My mother

walking again. No more floods. Not

worrying whether the ceilings will hold.

A library somewhere in the neighborhood.

Dry books, all of them. Shih tzus barking

in the front yard. Tulips, green grass jelly

plants, the pond repopulated with gold

and red koi. A child (is that too much?)

smiling at the crimson sunset. Perhaps

I will start painting again. Paintings.

A carved, welcome sign on the front door.

The doors rehinged, repainted. The warmth

of sweet tea next to a plate of biscuits served

on the porch. The porch refloored. Meatballs

and noodles in a bowl of savory broth.

Coffee and philosophy. My father reading

the news. Ancestors watching over us. Heaven

on earth: no more suffering. Not asking

for scraps. I apologize, I didn’t prepare

for this question.

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*** ** ***

IN-BETWEEN

I don’t suppose I will be remembered.

People fail to catch my two-syllable

name, mistake me, sadly, for the closest

Asian guy they know. The history of

our families and countries, forcibly

squeezed into one container, as they say,

Sorry, sorry. I’m terrible with names.

Friends, colleagues, and teachers alike also

fail to recognize my face when they pass

by me on the streets, my face remains sunk

-en under all the white faces, unseen.

I don’t blame anyone. When I returned

my uncle too, before his death, coughed,

confessed, “I didn’t know you’re still alive.”

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*** ** ***

ACCENT

My Chinese is as good as dead: lost both

in my tongue and memory, like the names

of my ancestors, whose syllables were

erased from the pages of history

by dancing flames or the mouth of the sea.

In my dreams, I understood what you meant

when you whispered in your language on that

rainy, sleepless night. Perhaps I have been

away for too long. When I wake, I kiss

your bare belly as you toss from one side

of the bed to the next, your eyes remain

closed. There are words for what I am doing—

but I’ve yet to learn them. I say, I don’t

know—I want you.

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