Origin Myth as Hand-Me-Down

After the May 1998 riots against Chinese Indonesians

The year bends into the false spring. My mother 
throws a shadow over herself, and 1998 shivers 
into quiet life. The shadow is weathered, 

trembling with lineage. Grievances weaved together 
by callused hands and the threads of a lost dialect. 
The shadow borne by my ancestor who rowed oceans 

for a dream, leaving one homeland for another. After:
a history charted in crushed lemongrass, in communities 
burning across soil. The shadow cloaked over 

my mother’s family as they cradled inside a car, 
cheeks pressed against the rough spine of a 
floor mat. Their village outside: in flames. Because 

in the raging red of a tropical country, a child 
opens her palms and prays for snow. Generations 
later, and still, that shadow hangs its grievances 

dry. Because in a country where ashes stitch 
the streets like open-mouthed ribs, I breathe 
in its shame. Pick rubble out of my nails. Against 

the biography of May, my mother opens her hands 
like an inheritance and drapes the shadow 
across me — body assimilating to history. 

As the wind crackles against my skin, I shiver.