Grandma’s house was a hollow cinder block.
In the front yard stood a lone pear tree that bore blushing pink teardrops year round.
Every night magnolias bloomed like clockwork, pirouetting inside on light feet
to chase away stale sickness,
soothing us when Ông Cố barked at the rattling chain fence,
his voice walking with heavy coughs.

Even on New Year’s when we patted lipstick on our cheeks and mouths,
bright red like our silk dresses,
And danced in the cement front yard around spider web cracks.
He barked like an engine backfiring, frustrated and rusting from the inside out.
He was red too, all water and darkness.

We slept on woven mats atop concrete beds
inside a mesh shroud of Jupiter’s storm cloud.
Heat suspended over us, a bog of stagnation in the brick bathroom
breeding fish and algae, our bathwater aquarium in bloom with larvae,
mosquitoes never not pregnant and full of our blood.

Yet still we survived the nights and gathered to watch the morning sun
wide eyed, heads tucked in grandma’s soft lap,
chewing on our tear drops,
the yelling in the next room withering away.