Dou

the reflection in the mirror always makes
to remember
those early childhood days like the cigar-littered alley
of the restaurant we dined at in Yangzhou, China
and when I left the country at the young age of seven
crossing the Pacific–brief stop at Seoul–but
all people ask is, “Aren’t you a communist?”
but never ask about my peers
or family
I cut ties with when my world flipped upside down as
I stepped on that plane
like the crunch of tanghulu on the crisp winter
morning of Chinese New Years
or maybe the bright laughter as I
played hide-and-seek with my brother
our soles ringing in the empty apartment as
the babysitter snored
no one wanted to understand
that just because I’m Chinese
I am a product of brainwashed propaganda
but not the fact that
all I remember is the
warmth and smiles
as my two-to-seven-year-old me
waddling through bustling city life,
going to school, saying last goodbyes to my grandparents,
crunching away at the chips on family gatherings
playing Angry Birds with my cousins, some of whom were
20 years older
has lived happily without care
that his experiences will be questioned
because of political tensions that he
had no care in the world about
all the while I had cherished memories
unforgettable, but never known.