–Karen An-hwei Lee–
KAREN TO KHAZAKSTAN
It is snowing and raining at once
in Chicago, so I hail a cab.
The silent driver
with an Asian face
turns around to study mine
in the headlights.
What now, I think
as he looks at me.
You are Chinese, he says quietly
as the cab idles under the L
on Van Buren.
I am an American-born
Taiwanese, I reply.
Can you guess what I am? he says.
Thai? No. Hmong? No. Laotian?
No. Mien? No. Burmese? No, no.
Mongolian? Uzbek? Uzbekistan?
No, no.
Khazak? Khazakstan?
In the rear-view mirror, his face
breaks into a grin. Yes! Yes!
You are the only American
who sees who I am.
Snow in the cities, snow
on the steppes.
Bowls of hot shorpo. Mother.
Sister. Red weavings on the wall
and kyz-kuu or catch the girl
on grulla horses.
Who is an exile?
Nomadic tears
evaporate with traces of the Aral Sea
as the cab driver
merges onto Lake Shore Drive.
PLUMERIA ENFLEURAGE AS AWARENESS
On my way home,
I observe
a plumeria tree with short branches,
dwarf cousin of one long ago
flourishing over the dog-yard
in our archipelago girlhood.
I count blossoms on this – seven
to hundreds in memory.
As girls, we plucked on tiptoe,
strung them with cotton thread
for leis. Flowers
on our ears
day and night, life-giving candles
of fragrance. On the island,
we never did see the sphinx-moths
said to visit at night.
AND SAY IF
This buckling roof is cypress
drilled ardor of bees
This highway overpass
a mortar cliff for swallows
This skyscraper is a crag
a she-falcon roosting
Journey of wind turbines
where rock doves vanish
This parking lot is a mirage
where dark crows rise
Unbound book of starch
is a silverfish feast
Old corrugated boxes
of ravenous paper moths
A window is heaven
so we never stop flying