Tuyen Truong | Digital Product Designer
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Andreina 

​The scorching hot sun melted my shoulders
into a crisp red-brown when suddenly,
a shy Spanish voice arose from behind.
Agua?
 
I thought I was just another tourist
being taken advantaged of  
until she walked on her naked feet  
across the dust covered dirt  
to show me the sugar cane field –
the source of her water.
 
When I handed her my agua,
she took only one sip before
handing the rest to her friend, Anaxeli.
 
One less mile they had to hike,
and one less chemical they had to ingest
from the contaminated field
in the village of no identity.
The place where they are neither
Dominican or Haitian.  
The home where they are rejected
because they don’t have proof of birth.
 
That day,
the red Nalgene bottle remained bone dry while
the sugarcane field continued to thrive in a healthy, full bloom. 

Metamorphosis

​She remembers it like it was yesterday.
There were five of them total,
and together, they all cuddled up
in a queen-size mattress filled with
quilted patterns and feathered blankets.
 
When she woke up the next morning,
the foggy window connected icicles,
and the street filled with footprints.
Steep hills were closed for the day,
and she had the freedom to make
as many snow angels as she wanted.
 
But for some reason, she laid still,
not moving one bit. She was scared.
Afraid of judgment and embarrassment,
she decided it was easier to keep to herself,
until the pain became excruciating.
 
Her dad rushed in and asked what’s wrong.
She cried so loud, the icicles could’ve shattered.
Her sisters ran inside and again, she cried more.
She blamed it on the red nail polish,
but they all knew it was a lie.

The Thumpersnap 

The old thumpersnap stood wrinkly and droopy
It was sad because zibzees would not come by to zazing it
Every day, it would sigh and think about traloosing to Djibouti
 
Maybe there, other zibzees will think thumpersnap is a ruby
Thumpersnap went la-la-ing side to side, waiting to be zazinged
Until one day, a loud woosh-bang picked up all of its newbies
 
Off the newbies traloosed, some loopy, and others goofy
Wam bam! The newbies cacrashed into the a land of new zibzees
Some of the thimpersnippers kaplopped in the soilita of Djibouti
 
The new thumpersnaps sprouted mighty and fruity
They kicked their cheery legeez back and forth
Every day, schools of zibzees visit the newbies in groupies
 
The old thumpersnap was no longer wilted or gloomy
From afar, thumpersnap watched its newbies paplunk its seeds
Each time the wind wooshes, they all do the boogie-woogie

     Journey to the
The ^ American Dream

Light is fading
but the sounds grow louder
as mama steps her foot
on the sewing machine pedal.
 
For up to 18 hours,
the clock doesn’t stop ticking,
and her eyes never stop squinting.
Just last month, she had to get
surgery for her cataracts.
She’s only 53 years old.
Wrinkles envelop the eyes
which we rarely get to look into.
Bandages hide the cuts that have
been pierced by machine needles.
Crooked fingers swell
from the same repetitive motion.   
We think she’s developing arthritis.
 
Now rays creep through
and noises echo in her mind as she
humbly thinks about tomorrow.  
She won’t stop dreaming
until we all graduate.
We won’t stop dreaming
until we present
mama with the restaurant
that we think is her American Dream. 

Qing Ming

Yellow incense shrink,
and joss paper ashes float
while we meet again.
 
We pay our respects,
even to the neighbors there.
We greet, pray, and chant.
 
A picnic in place --
pork belly, tea, and pastry.
We feast together.
 
Once the bright flames die,
we sweep, rinse, and dry the tomb.
Until next April.
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