It is march.
Cherry blossoms explode
like a guerilla attack
one chilly morning.
Two weeks later,
weightless and dry,
a gust of wind is all,
and I too disappear.
The city and I wake up together,
teetering on the edge of tears.
I toggle my antennae, seeking
precision and clarity in the white noise
of the relentless Pacific Northwest drizzle.
The vagaries of immigrating brown,
woman and in debt Vancouver carries for me
with surprising nonchalance.
In that quickening October evening,
as the last of the azaleas wither,
I crumble under the particularities of chilli,
cry over the careless abundance
of curry leaves back home.