in jakarta i barely remember my grandfather’s house. the air conditioner was
never on. no matter how much the maids scrubbed their own hands raw to keep it
indonesia it rained endlessly, and in pools of water left behind, mosquitoes swarmed like
locusts looking for crop. only a babe in my mother’s arms i was perfect:
too young for the memory of trauma, it is the body that remembers, cartographic.
in america i suffer scars and phantom pains, the spirits my mother blames for my illness.
she used to tell me they stole my hearing when i was younger, and i don’t remember
having it at all. i feel the narrative of another life barely lived, stitched to the back of my ears. i
have never written my own story, but i have ghostwriters with white coats and white faces.