I writhed across the stars, one night, dreaming of the fars

Where in tropical nations, conceivably, the sky turned gradations

Of warm colors for the same sunrise, I see, but different bird cries probably

In the ears of a young humanity, not me, but only by fortuity

So no connection to go on, extant, except the continent of Mr. Donne

But in the Philippine archipelago, a real link, rises to the raucous crow

Of my uncle's fighting birds, two in number, whose struggles become words

In Ilocano as my uncle bets, smelling of rice wine, on those pretty pets

When his sun in the sky is tall, abed, he will sleep off the alcohol

And I will be eating dinner, next to, his sister a bread winner

Through an education bought with pork, sold to nuns, and hard work

As my mother has often sung, to us, her pale skinned freckled young

Visibly second gen only when, well baked, in Houston sun

Monolingual by bad luck, because, there are scholarships for foreign stuff

Though foreign stuff we be, to half at least, all blood relations globally  

When we take up their car seats, they guide tourists through their streets

And we are enchanted by not knowing, at all, where next we are going

'Til elsewhere turnt at our behest, once, that home is not of interest 



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