November

Moved across oceans
Thousands of miles away from home
Little lights strung in rows outside houses,
are still fighting the dark here too

While moon falls into the canal water,
like tear drops on pillow in my old bedroom
Crisp brown leaves continue to crunch like giant bags of potato chips

All under a sky of vermilion my grandma applied,
in the middle of her hair neatly parted—like borders drawn after blood shed


November doesn’t seem to know which country it belongs to.