for nearly two years
he has filled in the place of others
offering hugs and kisses
to those who need them

he lies still in times of chaos and peace
observing the scenes unfold.
he looks up with his dark, round eyes
begging for attention.

sometimes, i lie with him, glowing
at other times, streams fall
down my rosy cheeks and shaky lips
onto his soft, golden fur.

as i drift away into a slumber
my arms hold him tight
before dropping to my sides
and letting him go.

he bounces on the carpet
landing on his side
he waits through the night
until dawn comes again.

happiness is when
you wake up in darkness
only to realize
you can sleep another hour

happiness is when
each paint stroke falls into place
and a picture comes to life

happiness is when
the barista calls your name
and you take that first sip
of taro milk tea

happiness is when
she holds you close
every chance she gets

happiness is when
the weather is not too hot
nor too cold
but just right

drip. drop. drip. drop.
quiet nights, empty stalls,
not a soul in sight,
but the flow persists,
and one by one,
the water falls.

Miles of concrete blend with the white sand
The way tan blends into brackish waters
And out into the horizon beyond the Barriers,
Where even the tall pines fade
Into fallen, charred logs.

Across the way, Fort Maurepas
Stands tall, paying tribute to our French ancestors,
Where children race around in circles
And jump in the splash pad,
Their pigtails bouncing, bouncing

So this is the Gulf Coast. A Sunday evening
In early June, pedaling as the sun sets,
Breathing in the salty air, and
Dodging walkers, runners, and other bikers,
Still exchanging small smiles.

Behind ancient live oaks,
Lie artists who have made their mark:
O’Keefe, Ohr, Anderson, and more,
Marked by the three silver pods
Whose every curve shines light for passersby.

You feel like that; you feel like
Stopping and walking instead
To slow down time, like
Dipping your toes in the cool water, like
Dancing carefree with the pods.

You feel like pulling over and running
Down to the end of the pier, where
A couple patiently fish for trout, like
Diving in without warning nor looking back. Instead,
You keep pedaling and admire the calm of the Gulf.

Home can be hard to reach
When it is nearly ten thousand miles away.
But when I do manage to visit, the same question resurfaces:
“Quê hương con ở đâu?” Where are you from?
Every syllable articulated
But blending softly from one to another,
And looks of curiosity and wondering faces
From friends, from family, from friends of family,
Even strangers I’ve never met.
And every year, I hesitate before saying,
“I was born in the States, but my parents are from Vietnam.”
Like a record on replay,
The words roll off my tongue.
But this answer only works for my peers and some.
The older generation expects something more:
“Mẹ is from Sa Đéc, Cha is from Phước Khánh.”
When these words are spoken,  
I am reminded of my roots.
My ancestors bathed in the Mekong just as I had;
They, too, woke to the sound of clucking chickens,
They walked the same path I did to the flea market every morning.
Hearing my native language makes me wonder
Where everything I know about my culture
Started.

i remember as a child
watching my mom work in the garden
during scorching summer evenings, sweating
as she dug up dirt in the backyard,
and thinking, i, too, could do that one day

i mimicked her motions in an effort to learn,
watching her sprinkle lemongrass
into the *** of tamarind broth,
grabbing a fistful of fresh basil,
and wishing i could reach over the brim

watching her eyes glaze over
as she concentrates and threads the needle,
pushing up her small glasses
every few minutes, i poked at my own forehead
and squinted hard to find the hole
that ceased to exist

now, when the summertime comes,
i spend my evenings in the yard,
digging up the same dirt,
realizing that day has come

when i was three, Katrina was a Three
she paid me a visit
but i ran to the Windy City
and remained for six months

when i returned, Katrina was gone
but she took with her
everything i knew
my car, my couch, my carpet

she left behind a broken home
and forced me to sleep
in a freezing tent
in my front yard

she left behind broken spirits
no source of income
no school to attend
no understanding of why

at three years old
i just wanted my bed
i wanted dry floors
i wanted to life before the storm