the red string connection

i’ve always liked crime shows

the way that everything connects at the end

the corkboard and all its hanging pieces

accomplices, suspects, times, and dates

the muted beiges and greys sliced

by lines and lines of fiery red twine

my mother ate durian growing up

i remember trembling at the sight of her childhood home

the lizards that made their ways onto walls and into beds

the summer heat that made my skin feel like syrup

the empty roads and the rows and rows of trees

we ended up staying at a hotel

i’ve never been to my dad’s hometown but

i remember eating bowls upon bowls of citrusy soup

the bone broth that warmed my chest with every sip

the lemonade that cooled the traces of morning sun

the sips of iced coffee that i snuck from my parents

we don’t go there much anymore

my memories seem to have faded since then

the leads, the potential breakthroughs, the ah-ha moments

always seem just out of reach

i never could use that red twine

from new york to malaysia

to vietnam to china

their history spans four countries

mine has settled in only one

a single pin on my ancestor’s board of connections

a missing piece that could never be placed

seven thousand miles from any other

nothing incoming or outbound

tethered in place, grounded to nowhere

beauty, fortune, luck

tradition, heritage, family

the colors of culture faded

the moment i touched

america’s blue soil

golden flecks dancing on my cheongsam

words from ancient tongues flowing from my lips

strokes of black ink flooding papers from my brush

protective jade wrapped around my wrist, hanging from my neck

i want to be painted red

i’ve always liked crime shows

the way that everything connects at the end

the world and all its individual pieces

countries, languages, cultures, and foods

i want the lines and lines of fiery red twine

to make their way back to me