on the road to Oakland

up the 5

we discuss

the motherland

her suffering

her pain

how sorrow

is ours

as much as

kimchi

and rice

to love us

is to speak

the language

of scars

reopened

we say while

traversing

California

in its bright

in its smile

Westlake

there is a part of my city

that no one sings songs about

that no one makes films about

that no one writes poems about

this is home for me

this is home

my mother's deepest fears

are the memories I hold dear

love is a bottle of red

at first it is bright

colorful and piquant

breathe in its vivacity

swallow its verve

but let it age

and you will find

the ruby give way

for an amber hue

those distinct notes

blur altogether

until you cannot taste the fruit

but time itself