i speak two ocean languages
one drowning in my mother
one lapping at my father

old ladies of roncesvalles wrapped in

mink difference regard me with disdain

i offer them my passport as consolation

pointing to my last name as explanation

in chinatown they do not bother with a dialect

my tongue responds only to noodle soup

i can stumble over a thank you

leaving with nothing to offer afterwards

my ocean languages fail me

salted like wounds wrapped

and tossed in the waves

waves that brought boats. waves of
disparity of memory of migration

a man at the polish deli who could be

my grandfather explains paczki to me

i smile. he sees a strange face

knowing nothing about plum jelly

a chinese lady rips the cheongsam from

my hands saying she knows my type

you want to take pictures not buy

the dress doesnt suit me anyway

my ocean languages were
lost at sea left in the boat
buried in a garden sunk
in the yangtze silenced

by the revolution starved

in every war

my ocean languages swell
in pockets of the city but
dissolve into sea foam on my lips
still not meant for me

Originally published in White Wall Review 41 (2017)