inhale / exhale me home

words by Wendy Gao, art by Sana Friedman

i. inhale

breathe in

the steam from

white rice,

egg and chive dumplings,

the sizzle of pan seared tofu in oyster sauce

with dry fried green beans.

the scent of my mother’s aloe lotion

an imprint of her hug on my body,

love made manifest

like a warm breath on a window.

winds that feel familiar

the air tastes better at home—

I don’t want any of it to escape my lungs.

the faint smells of oil and garlic

that never seem to leave the kitchen,

green tea leaves and day-old coffee grinds

mark where I begin

and end.

ii. hold

yīn and yáng

suspended in my throat,

afraid to spill

the cosmos in my mouth.

I never learned

to swallow pills.

contests of who

could last the longest,

just four puffed cheeks

full of air and our parents’ dreams

blown across the Pacific

I’m still in the pool with my sister.

my Chinese inheritance

the American dream

tattooed inside my lungs.

my ribs will break

before Hope

escapes Pandora’s box.

iii. exhale

the exodus

is slow

then quick

and all at once.

journey overseas

and through the sky

the view of America

takes my parents’ breath away.

far from home,

the air is different here.

but exhale is not exile

these winds will one day feel familiar.