Goodnight Prayer
by Julia Htoon
Goodnight Prayer
You are allowed to riot and wail and punch and yearn /
You are allowed to roam open country roads in hopes of finding salvation
in tender matcha-green grass and innocent grazing cattle /
You are allowed to write glowing love letters in dreamy midnight euphoria /
befriend elusive insomnia /
You are allowed refuge in the poets' punctuation / hidden in every comma
and ellipses—
treading the great land of in-between /
You are allowed to fall towards disintegration
as long as you rise as a scarlet phoenix /
You are allowed to create home somewhere else /
I'm here to remind you this is the beginning / you’re in it now /
Lean closer, my dear Julia /
Listen to your steady, eternal heart / the metronomic melody
from your scarred chest / your surgeon's gift of evermore / humming always /
tick
tick
tick
It's calling you /
Let it lull you to sleep tonight /
And tomorrow we begin again
My Mother is Not a Machine But a Girl
Humidity nightmares of charming Burmese days,
Symphony of sugarcane juice vendors,
Buddhist prayer on the streets,
And hungry wandering dogs,
Harmonize with moldy book comfort
from the local shop,
She yearns for the rugged embrace,
running in Dawei dirt,
Steamy noodle slurping,
big sister hand-me-downs,
Flower thievery
and wanting to be loved.
Sweet child,
forgotten and abandoned,
In a house but never a home.
In the twenty-third orbit of the burning sun,
I finally see the truth
in my mother's tamarind eyes,
Forever a girl and not just a bearer of one.
Where did her memories rest in the quiet years,
Tending to marriage and motherhood?
Caught in my own girlhood,
I missed hers.
My mother is not a machine but a girl.
Sequoia Lake Sanctuary
Guarded by noble evergreens, needles twirl
beneath my watch, secrets travel the wind
as I tread to my spot where no one goes.
I taste the sweetness from the nearby whispers
of whimsy and girlhood.
They live in my sunburnt melanin ears,
so warm and alive.
At 7:53 AM, lake birds gracefully skim the waters,
their wings barely touching, causing ripples.
I wonder about the hidden life beneath,
longing to be seen as they whisper,
"We're here. Notice our presence, please."
The dewy air fills with chatter carried
by seventeen-year-olds,
reminding me of the days I, too, walked in their shoes.
How strange that six years have slipped away since.
When I plant my feet on the twiggy ground,
crushing wood and leaves,
the supple earth replies, humming with each step.
A quiet orchestra of earthy crunches and chocolatey soil
that only I hear.
Summer moss kisses the ancient dwellings,
and high, high above,
clouds gently collide,
and I know everything is okay.
The sun glistens and distracts, welcoming herself,
her brilliance nearly blinding my opals.
But this time, I allow her sweet intrusion,
for I know,
I will miss these sounds and colors
of this summer by the dock.