Shooting Stars

May 6, 2018
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you prefer not to reach
for the heaven-blessed lights above, but to
go after ones
you can chase;
— its tail is a glass of warm milk that
spills softly &
streaks delicately across the
dark blue tablecloth —
shooting stars = = = ?

 

it starts out with words:
their cat   her uncle   the train
your grandmother  the doctor  our red country

before gradually rearranging themselves:
violin lessons [which stops] father
[he sacrifices] work [there are opportunities but]
JobStudyTestsCollegeOceansAway—
America.

 

all of a sudden, you’re
chasing & chasing
running past rebirthed trees &
withered lotuses.
grieving skies,
thunderous clouds.
overturned stones,
croaking cranes.
an occasional shadow,
yet you push them back,
willingly,
anything,
in order to continue on.
because there is nothing else
but the streaking light ahead:
onward ?  ?   ?

 

when you finally arrive
it’s already the late 20th century.
you’re on time,
don’t worry.
but your newlywed husband is
moons away,
not to mention family and friends
you’ve left behind
[you taste the
bittersweetness
of sacrifice].

 

there are others:
the unsteady flow of money,
cultural shock,
how their language fumbles & jumbles
entering ? in one ear &
? exiting out your other.
why your accent betrays you,
always,
right away.

 

there are people that think
so loud
you can hear their thoughts:
you don’t belong here.
go back to your country.

but you can’t stop now,
not when you’re so   c l o s e
you can brush your hand against the trails of
glimmering stardust & gossamer threads.
so you keep running.
& chasing.
& hoping.

 

maybe along the way, the
dashing meteor changes its course,
so your focus shifts
as the months fly by.
time melts the wait &
you see your husband quicker.
then before you realize,
a heart is
pumping,
& a living being
breathes
inside your body.
she needs a lot of
attention, so
for a while,
you put aside
your dream for hers.

 

today, maybe you’ve already caught the
fallen star. maybe
you’re still dreaming.
so when you do,
cradle it
with the joints of your fingers,
in the creases of your callused palms;
the hands that reached towards
something more
for a very,
long
time.






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