cedar drive

maple leaves twirled when the ceiling fan didn't
a rooftop-dwelling pail leading to a
helicopter hail of unsolved mysteries

sometimes piles, sometimes perfectly lined
right outside of the door lie sandals of
welcomed guests and residents alike

if the truck was going five miles fast
then we must have been going ten
our only souvenir was the popsicle stick

winds drying tears of hand-sewn sarongs
hung by wood and metal on elastic line
like waving flags of our family members

wiping the rain off plastic, blue seats and
having chains imprinted on our palms
an unsecure swingset meant going higher

cooling jasmine tea on the front steps
cracked cement next to moonflower trees
pulling buds to make huts for ants

notebook paper money stashes and
couch cushion fortresses were the
perfect setting for an afternoon heist

pictures of my grandfather, incense filled the air
the sweet ripe fruits laid out on the red, silk cloth
the scents of death and the culture of prayer

standing on step-stools by the topload washer
clothes were pounded with paint sticks
when the electricity bill was late again

there was a dishwasher we called drying rack
chipped and mismatched and free of scraps
ceramic plates were washed with hard hands

sitting in corners singing words i don't
understand, khmer karaoke filling the room
the lease reached its age before i did

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originally published in issue four of The Shanghai Literary Review