and the country she still grows;
vertical, nocturnal,
imprints of the west, traditions in the east
her shores kissing the south china sea.

dad would return smelling of nicotine and smoke,
the streets a permanent stain in his sandpaper skin.
i have been taught to sing in place of speaking;
spouting symphonies, instead of plain words.

in summer the water and ocean calls
chlorine and salt seeping into every pore;
i watched sunlight penetrate the depths,
shimmering; tried to bathe in the warmth i saw.

in winter, mom named us dragons
breathing ice in place of fire; cloud breaths, frosted glass.
rainbows formed our skyline, the buildings iridescent
in those days, santa still waved from the windows.

first drink at four and coffee from seven
we ran and still run -
red lights for the sake of races.
the law was a sewing my father calmly weaved through
tradition, he called it. i grew up in the town he did too.

i am a child of the harbour and sea
the wind in my hair, hands in the breeze
family and city unorthodox, belonging;
the pulse of my heart.

(A.H.Z)