Cynthia Dewi Oka

Because “a better life” is the immigrant’s most stubborn
illusion, I wanted a do-over. Other versions behind (beside)  me like so many costumes (countries). That one: the pink-
jacketed girl sweeping her tambourine under a dome  of hallelujahs. This one: the hoodied teenager being kissed
on a rooftop the way spring can make the moon’s blemishesfeel holy. I want you to know that there were moments staying
was easy.

This is what I wanted, isn’t it? This house, quiet
as sunlight, grass on the other side of these windowsfading from gold to green like a woman taking
off her makeup. I have waited and waited to hold  my grief. Tied her up in garbage bags under clothes
I intend to donate, slipped her in the side pockets  of suitcases and empty slots between cigarettes
in packs I carry always in multiples. I trained her  to stand behind doors, to exit as laughter from my
throat.