you can write this for me, too

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

clean,italwaysseemed dirty.off-whitetilesinsuchabigspace.in

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.