Mandy Moe Pwint Tu

At Myanmar Culture Night, I walk around the tables,

hands clasped together like a tourist. I ask questions. 

Learn what I already know. I don’t say, I’m from Yangon. 

I know the trees that you know. Our ears grew up

with the same tines. The same songs. A friend’s partner

looks me up and down. The words that tumble out

are English. She asks, Are you from here? Here meaning

America. I say, No. But I have been here a long time.

Somewhere in a country, gas prices hiked to the high heavens,

my aunt believes herself, once again, in love. She gives a man

everything she has. Love, like a guava pit, spills with teeth.

My mother, sun in her eyes, shifts her phone so I can see

the earthenware pots, the nat shrine, the padauk pouring 

from silver bowls. I called him a thief, she says.

I have been here a long time. Evidenced by my oldest friend

over WhatsApp call, remarking: You sound different. Sound

American. She recommends romance novels because I asked. 

Look. Look. If I don’t tell you I’m Burmese, do you still taste

monsoons on my lips? If my leg hooks on your thigh, and I

guide you where Rangoon crashes against the Andaman Sea,

will you remember this in the morning? Thief, thief. Every day

I steal from myself. Syllables like begging bowls. Clamour

in my bones like Mogok jade behind glass screens at a lapidary.

I was young and the stagelights were amber. Everything

is amber in my memory. My father, who lives still, his body

pressed against the yellow door. Stay that way, Dad, forever.

I want to come home.