Jessica Tina Chang

Homeland

It is when we sit around the dinner table
That my mother tells us about the floods,
About the roaches, and her homeland
Where we visit but never stay.
Taiwan, the map says,
But from Mom's stories
I see a land of hard living—
Of too many people
And no room for me.

Taiwan is a rotting staircase to an attic
With paper-thin walls
Whistling and blowing in winter,
Sprouting mildew in summer.
My mom had seven brothers and sisters;
They lived in someone else's tiny attic.
One night a typhoon whirled into town,
Splashing sewage with islands of garbage
Up the steps to the door.

They stayed in their room,
Praying until murky waters retreated.
I always think about my attic bedroom
With white walls and creamy carpet
But can never imagine huddling inside,
Listening to filth lap outside,
Grimy mice running across my feet.
I would have fainted, I think, from the smell
Of rain inside one room, the sound

Of muddied shoes dragging
Over sagging floors, the taste
Of stale bread mixed
With ten people's hands. I remind Mom
We are eating dinner, but she continues
Telling her story of the floods
As she cuts the warm bread
And ladles the soup
For our family of five.

(This poem was inspired by "Grudnow" by Linda Pastan)

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