my father loves the southwest.

the land exists as a sliver

of a reminder of his homeland.

the sky burns silver streaks onto

the walls of antelope canyon.

a horseshoe bends 

along the river valley.

my father loves sedona.

icicles form in an orange desert,

the sharpest of glacial knives.

my father drives away on turnpike,

car headlights distorted after dusk

because he can never stay 

in one place for too long 

before being told to go back

to where he came from.

my father loves the southwest:

its cascading rock formations.

george strait on 96.3 kswg.

my father loves the southwest

more than our town in california.

he loves the places he

will never call home.

my mother loves her homeland.

in jakarta, she is a girl again, 

catching coconuts like meteors.

she naps in amah’s arms, sleep- 

talking with a cockatoo tongue. 

the trees sway darker, like skin –

amber, honeyed-cocoa, glistening.

my mother loves her island city.

still, she has fled from it all:

a country, husband, two baby boys.

my mother stands by the train tracks

plucking and counting her gray hairs.

this is the place where

she once saw a child die.

now, she waits to see if there’s 

a small human to save, to hold.

my mother loves her homeland:

the scent of tamarind and exhaust.

buffalos knee-deep in tropical dirt.

my mother loves that amah is still alive,

growing orchids, far from california.

a place is proof that

she was once a child too.