My Wins, My wins, My wins

Dear Younglan Talyoung,
I am writing from a place where bridges were planted like seeds.
they were watered, pruned, and fertilized deliberately by you,
and now I am here harvesting the fruits and planting new seeds.
While every child on the block was allowed to play in the rain
you were sitting in front of mother,
her breasts touching your back,
her breath caressing your neck,
her hands on your hands tracing the letters of the alphabets,
reading and memorising nursery poems and rhymes,
listening to the laughter of other children as they play;
your scrambled thoughts retuned to their place by one slap at the back of the head.
And time, how she is a migrating bird,
moving with the tides and the seasons and the sun.
you were always the star in the class,
reciting Old Roger is dead to Mr. Hunger
to writing all the love letters for all the boys in high school,
to reciting in church
and making the last round of your first slam.
School wasn’t forth coming,
you started to work for father
until you established your own.
as cliché as life isn’t a bed of roses sounds,
You have worn so many crowns,
some of them, woven thorns.
Every mother points at you,
tells her boy child to grow like you.
How then can anyone be prouder than I am,
As I write from this place, where bridges were planted like seeds.

Younglan Talyoung