Accent · Issue One · 03 of 12
Cheng Yifou (Mia)China
light beams comes gently through half-closed windows
mean mustache becomes a painting
her eternal pout carries frustration into slumber
sunset on a train door he leaned on
wheels rolling into that sea-blown hair, clumsy
suddenly, my thirst tastes like poetry
She found her words better in her second language but felt more profusely in her native tongue. The curse of a child who lived far from her childhood, with more love in her head than her heart was ever capable of.