Leaving

Wahiawa is still

a red dirt town

where the sticky smell

of pineapples

being lopped off

in the low-lying fields

rises to mix

with the minty leaves

of eucalyptus

in the bordering gulch.

We lived there

near the edge

where the orchids grew huge

as lanterns overnight

and the passion fruits rotted

on the vines

before they could be picked.

We grew there

in the steady rain

that fell like a gray curtain

through which my mother peered:

patches of depression.

She kept the children under cover.

We built houses within houses,

stripping our parents’ bed

of pillows and sheets,

erecting walls out of

The National Geographic

which my father had subscribed to

for years. We feasted

on those pictures of the world,

while the mud oozed

past the windows

knocking over the drab green leaves

of palm fronds

as we ate our spinach.

The mildew grew in rings

around the sink

where centipedes came

swimming up the pipes

on multiple feet

and the mold grew

around our small fingers

making everything slippery

to touch.

We were squeamish and pale.

I remember one night

my sister screamed.

All the lights blinked on

in the house.

In the sudden brightness,

we rushed to her room

and found her crumpled

in the far corner of the bed,

her nightgown twisted in a strange shape;

her eyes were as huge as mine,

staring into the eyes of the bat

that clung to the screen.

Its rodent fingers

finally letting go

as my father jabbed its furry body

with the end of a broom.

Copyright Credit: Cathy Song, “Leaving” from Picture Bride. Copyright © 1983 by Cathy Song. Reprinted with the permission of Yale University Press.

Source: Picture Bride (Yale University Press, 1983)