Painted Boundary

He thinks of gray fences in winter

to describe his existence here in the states.

But many things terrify him, the constant

sharp glare of the sun for one. It strikes the lock

on the gate, and it’s all over. His father had

told him the confined space is the paradise

he had been aiming for. Fences didn’t need

to corral anything—but to his meticulous

son, the ends had to meet. Whether it enclosed

the house or not, music coming from

the windows must also stop in midair, where

the fence ran below. This, the son could not

understand. The view is golden, yet there’s an

invisible boundary throughout. So, one day,

the earnest son bought paint and grayed

all the locks and hinges. Now, all of paradise is even.

The music he left inside the house,

inside himself.

Culture Clash

Chicago had wide sidewalks that welcomed

winds meant to spackle your face. Last Christmas,

I stood on such. That air had claws like a Transformer.

I waited for my sister to pick me up before

anything viral would. Breath I could see again.

Throwing profanity, I saw those, too. When she

finally pulled up, I got into her Mini, toasty enough

for an immediate-plan conversation. It’s the sister

who likes to feed her guest first, to her liking, always

something fun, exquisite, and international.

It didn’t matter if my neck had a scarf or my forehead

had a message board that said, "I’m here in

your Frigidaire city — take me home first, please."

But she described to me Ooter, a nice place less than

twenty minutes away. Knowing her house was still an hour away,

I clutched my naked hands, rubbed them, and said,

“Is that Cambodian for Hooter’s?” She looked at me

strangely and drove out into traffic and tundra.