Inside Out & Back Again

by Thanhhà Lại

I can’t make my brothers go live elsewhere, but I can hide their sandals.

From now on Fridays will be for happy news. No one has anything to say.

Mother closes her eyes, eyes that resemble no one else’s, sunken and deep like Westerners’ yet almond-shaped like ours. I always wish for her eyes, but Mother says no. Eyes like hers can’t help but carry sadness; even as a child her parents were alarmed by the weight in her eyes.

Green mats of grass in front of every house. Vast windows in front of sealed curtains. Cement lanes where no one walks. Big cars pass not often. Not a noise. Clean, quiet loneliness.

People living on others’ goodwill cannot afford political opinions.

How can I explain dragonflies do somersaults in my stomach whenever I think of the noisy room full of mouths chewing and laughing?

This year I hope I truly learn to fly-kick, not to kick anyone so much as to fly.