Trip

Eyes—tired and
Dried, closed, at times
Struggling to stay awake.

'Was your teacher Chinese?'

Limbs rooting
And clinging—sore, 
Clenching the cold
Steel, with hands, knuckles white and
Paling nails.

'No.'

Ears and voices in my head—without warning
Gushing through the blood
Vessels into my heart and mind.

'Why did he understand Chinese then?'
'I don't know.'
'Did he have blond hair?'
'No.'

My neighbours—
A woman and her possession, a little girl
Who swings her legs for they are too short to
Touch the floor.

'Then he is Chinese, I told them to get you a foreigner.'

Like how the warmth escapes me, I remember
Little by little.

'You are a waste of my money.'

Like how the cold invades me, I remember
What happened when I was little.

'Did you understand the lesson?'
'No, it's not my fault.'
'Of course it is.'

'Let me get off, please.'

'I'm telling your father about this.'
'No, mother, please don't.'
'Your father will hit you.'

I got off, and I am glad. 
Someday, she'll forget.

Dale Chou
2000-10-02