Summer 2025

after dinner, the bamboo leaves
seem to sweat with the residue of
sticky rice, eaten with tongues
rolled in loss. i ask my mom
to tell me a secret about my people.
in half-lidded eyes, she tips her head
back and says we are the most

selfish. silence afterwards, as if
stealing her own words away like
the tears she saved, oceans parted
from home. it’s not hard for me
to see why she says our names are
synonymous with want because that’s
all she’s ever been taught. her hands,
always clasped in prayer for a better
place, a newer name, going beyond
the red-baked streets of xiluo into
a promised life of enough.

selfish. not a lack of greed, but
a desperate hoard. saving the story
she’s been told to never repeat,
our history of grief. we are the
unrecognizable nation, one that can’t
afford to lose anymore than we already
have. so we swallow pieces of the
sugar stained land and lost hokkien language
between our teeth. what we carry is what
our grandparents carried and what our
ancestors carried, and we continue to hide
this ache behind curtained lips.

selfish. what i want to know
i cannot know. but i still find myself
drawn to where i have not been,
places i have not touched, unfelt loss
so hollow, it becomes mine. i’m just as
guilty as you, mom—my desire in this
mending culture knows no bounds, and
this hope for something that’s not mine—
inhibits each perfect bone.

 

Rebecca Yang is a junior at Orange County School of the Arts, where she studies Creative Writing. Her work has been recognized by the Alliance for Young Artists and Writers, the National Federation of State Poetry Societies, and DePaul’s Blue Book: Best American High School Writing. Her poetry is published or forthcoming in Polyphony Lit, Élan Literary Magazine, The Weight Journal, Crashtest, and The Howl.