I AM FROM

I am from windchimes rustling on the porch

From terracotta pots and rattan canes,

I am from the breeze that spins a dormant ceiling fan,

hot, fickle, so dense it cements hair to neck.

I am from roadside mimosa,

curling in at the slightest touch

I'm from the carefully collaged photo albums and vases of ferns plucked on nighttime walks

From don't step on ashes and don't point at the moon

I'm from Sunday Catholics and paper Buddhists, the watery intersection of imported altars.

I'm from one-and-a-half degrees north of the equator,

Nigella Lawson's roast chicken, shredded into congee with ginger and shallots.

From the women who speak 5 languages but read none,

the men who write all day but say nothing,

a travelling wall of postcards and souvenirs erected in every new home

I close my eyes, and step into the Northeast monsoon.