‘Tsiang’ by Sarah Tsiang
My name is a speech impediment. A thick tongue. Names that expose the black hair, My name is the new kid stuck at the front of the class,
It smells like fish; like cooking in closed quarters,
hand-me-downs and the hung-head shuffle
of names that don’t want to change for gym class.
the unfamiliar gait of a body that doesn’t quite fit.
wishing for the anonymity of a desk while the teacher
calls out chang? tea-ang? sang? until it nods,
nods, nods, becomes any name at all.
