caught up in between

the sound of tinned viet opera echoes through my bà nội’s house / eyes of sorrow peak through
plastic wrapped paintings / walk down the webbed dusted staircase into the room of prayers /
scents of incense and heavy promises from family cast a weight too heavy for my hands / bow to my
knees and clasp my hands for the beady eyes of god, celebration of thanh minh / each breath a
whisper of remembrance
my ah-ma’s soap operas drift into the sound of water slipping into soil / fake cobwebs choke the
front door’s pillars / facade of festivity shrouding a quiet ache / brown doors yawn open / as cheap
orange buckets are held out by the still tired hands / fingers worn by age of labor / reminiscing of
the 中文 traditions of 萬聖節 / where ghosts of ancestors now dance among the pumpkins /
laughter hollowed into the bright grasp of american plastic capitalism