Words by Vanessa Liao
Art by Ajani De Vas Gunasekara
little children
caressed in the arms of not their own
kind
but the kind that glistens, pale
pearly white in the summer
sun
little children
raised in fields of letters and numbers
playing games of ‘memory’ with the alphabets
they tell you will create
this word (correctly)
or that word (incorrectly)
little children
and their lunchtime
lunch
boxes
packed to the brim
an aquarium of flavours and aromas
captured directly from the streets
of
a land far, far away from here
are huddled in the corner
shielding themselves
from
all the words that bite.
and I hate to ruin this moment
of wishing your arms were
mine
to
keep
because if I held your arms
they would protect me
from all this world that we breathe
nothing you could ever say or do,
no apology,
no offerings of hot tea,
or
fruit cut up in bowls
would shield your offspring from the wrath –
of sharp, piercing beaks of birds of prey
and you could try with all your might
to raise a child of resilience
a child of pride
a child of
home
and it would still
never
be
enough.
when I look back
on the decades that have passed
turning pages
as
I
go
one takes me to Saturday school
one to summer holidays
in a land far from here,
and another to my own
four walls
enclosed are all the years’ laughter
tears, screams and lies.
I’ve told myself
it’s okay to live a life
of fabrication
they don’t need to know
how the sacrifices have fallen
straight
into the
ground
and nothing else
will rebuild me
like these wings I deserve to grow,
once again
on
my
own
journey
home.
