Every December, my uncle pops rice paper candies in my palm. 
They barely survive the voyage to mouth. I can’t explain 
how the heat from my supplicate hands boil its sugary coat. 
When it gets to my mouth, 
lingers like an island, saliva aquamarine,   
           pacific ocean tongue. Sucks out the gummy bits. 
They cross miles and miles for me to digest, take the plastic out 
of the ground and crumple, sounds like a song.   


This is why I wear charms and keep a birthright in black hair,
be the flour in the pandesal, the sweet ensaymada, 
           fathers kimchi, I take it upon myself.
This candy sends me to sugary tombstone where I indulge 
for a second, imagine this is what 
their dirt taste like and how  
could America taste better than this?

By Breia Gore

Breia Gore is an Asian-Pacific American writer, educator, and literary activist living in South Carolina with her three cats and human partner. When she isn't stumbling over rough drafts or pointing out small animals on walks, she can be found drinking tea and organizing her pens. Find her on Twitter & Instagram @breiagore.

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