Somewhere else, my mother still
wakes up the family by drawing
back the curtains so they are gently
roused by sunlight. There, dismayed
voices still draw upon bamboo
poles made damp overnight. There,
people still queue up for duck rice. There,
September is just
 
September. I am watching geese
form a moving 'v' in the sky. To
my mother's dismay over Skype,
I announce that I am now
vegetarian. That I am not coming
home in January. Here, I tell her,
a storm does not embrace you. It only
leaves you damp, desiring the sun.