february/march ‘17— hong kong is the city i will always come back to. one that i don’t know how to leave, which is to say: this is my north point, the place that holds the strongest magnetism, pulling my heart into the rhythm of train wheels over tracks. across oceans and i am here. this is not my motherland, only a daughter of it. like me. her tongue is my sister tongue; a song sung in another octave that i can only half understand and only if i sing my song first. if i was a country this would be it: the aftermath of a mainland mother and father, colonised. languages in halves. two ways of thinking in a fist fight. the old under market stalls in mongkok, chestnuts roasted in giant woks on the sidewalk, voices rising over scaffolding. and the new finding a place on hong kong island caught in the throats of expats and small bars and conversations holding three languages. hong kong breathed polluted air into me and i can’t stop coughing out her skyline.