I carry loose coins for kettle chips that clank against my house keys
they’re in the front of my forty-pound bookbag
because there are too many for pockets
but too little for a wallet
I carry my family
because they laugh and cry for me
and because in the white space between questions
I remind myself no one wants a stupid daughter
I carry a dented can of coffee from the bottom shelf of the cupboard
it opens with a sizzle when my eyes begin to droop
because my nights run late
and my mornings run early
I carry trinkets from friends
a guitar pick a lone keyboard key a letter cramped with tiny writing
because they remind me of laughter and jokes and joy
and that I never have to be alone
I carry a taste for tanghulu
because my grandma held my hand when we pushed through Beijing crowds
and because I haven’t tasted tanghulu
since her hands grew stiff against sterile sheets
I carry compassion
for my family kind people and also for cats
for thunderstorms for mountain peaks for porcelain
because love is something I won’t let go
