The tough, leather-paper skin
Hiding caviar of the tropics –
Slippery seeds swimming in their wrinkled husks.
Years have passed since I tasted
the sickly sweet, dainty fruit.
Since I’ve heard the sharp ringing
music of gamelan – an orchestra of bells.
But only once,
Thirteen and bereft after the first day.
My mother’s whispered promise:
“you can be whoever you want in America”
Change your name, your clothes, your identity.
Blend, but don’t forget who you are,
Or where you came from.
It is normal, this change,
A part of growing up and becoming
I left it behind,
But why do I sometimes find myself
Happy, anxious, loved,
And yearning for passion fruit?