drewily asked about the Richard Blanco imitation :3

in case you didn't know, Richard Blanco is the 5th U.S. inaugural poet, meaning (i think) he was the person chosen by Obama to read a poem for his inauguration, among other things. so it's a super big deal, but also Blanco is a really cool person outside of being a poet! if u want to check his stuff out, he has poem collections and a memoir. anw tho, to answer the actual q :')

"1203" is an assignment for my crwr class, where we had to imitate his poem "El Florida Room," which is basically just about a room & what memories/feelings etc. it holds. just for context, 1203 is the number of an apartment that my family has since moved out of. like most viet apartments, the living room is the biggest room & where most of the activity happens, so this is about 1203's living room.

since it's a poem, i thought i'd just share the whole thing 💀🤚 enjoy :P

1203

Not a terrace, but where
buds and blossoms adorned
modest pots, where sunsets and
moonrise filtered through
the mosquito net's wires, and where
the whole city was laid out for me to observe
as I sit in the painted wooden chair
my parents have bought.

Not an auditorium—well, certainly not
because my brother and I are no musicians
whether on the piano or in the shower;
but voices from the hallway
always seemed so distant,
and the sounds from a single TV
can permeate the entire space.

Not a waiting room, but where
my dad sat waiting for his driver,
my brother sat waiting for his tutor,
my mom sat waiting for my grandfather,
and I sat waiting for dinner,
so we can go onto the next thing.

Not a bar, but where I lounged
on the sofa for hours talking to my crush,
where my grandmother commentated on
hundreds of episodes of Indian dramas, where
the drowsy darkness became filled
with my thoughts and my parents'
whispers, drowned out by my brother's snores.

Not a movie set, but where bullets flew
from my brother's Nerf guns and where I
acted out the coolest scenes
from the stories I wrote
(nobody was watching, of course);
where my mom directed things while my dad
opened and closed the door quietly
because it's always too early or too late
(nobody was watching, of course).

Different now, inhabited by my cousins
and their mom and dad, who invites us
to dinner every Saturday night
at our old house, our changed house,
our house where the sound of piano,
Indian dramas and children still sometimes
muffle conversation.