From Hong Kong
Baba sighed, he loathed long haul flights,
His dry hands pulled his worn jacket tight.
He never got used to leaving his Hong Kong mountainside
For chop suey, pork chow mein and curry sauce on the side please.
Turbulence and air resistance made him nauseous,
Forces he didn’t understand. He questioned how people
Conquered the skies, could see distant galaxies, kept this metal tube up in the air,
But couldn’t accept that some people look different.
His plane crossed time zones, long forgotten war zones,
Tripped over the shifted scars that carve up brothers from sisters.
He looked out the window, and couldn’t see any borders,
No lines like on maps, no races etched on mountainsides.
Peter is a 24-year-old English teacher in Wembley; born in London to a Hong Kong father and a Malaysian mother. The realities of teaching compete ferociously with the time he would like to spend writing poetry.