GRANDMA By Khenny, age 10

Her brown eyes shimmer

and blink in the sun.

Her gum, 

a tuft of blue 

between her teeth.

Her hand waves at me.

Rows of red, blue and yellow flowers float across her dress. 

She smells like apples.

She lives in Laos.

In her garden

grey water drips onto her carrots from the hose.

Her black hair twirls in the wind when she walks home

and her shoes clack on grenade-colored cement.

   

HOCMON By Nhi, age 9

The last time I saw my grandma

she was standing

underneath 

our pear tree.

Its leaves fell onto

her shoulders.

She had 

smooth hands

like silk.

When she 

went to 

parties she

wore a dress the color of roses 

and lipstick the color 

of cherry  blossoms.

Her brown eyes 

are the color 

of my hair.

ROSALINDA By Jessica M., age 9

She knew almost everything

about multiplication and addition.

Even

nine

times

nine.

She had to move away.

On her last day

wind

blew

her hair past her shoulders

when her arms

swung

across

the monkey bars.

Tears

dripped

onto her bottom lip.

TEDDY BEAR By Leslie, age 9

I left her

in my old apartment,

pillowed in

the couch.

Her heart was 

still.  

Her paws 

were shaped

like 

little 

rocks.

MY STROLLER By Tran, age 9

Gleaming

in the sun,

Heart shaped 

spots dot

its nylon seat,

Blue 

as the Saigon

sky,

Its pillow 

puffed 

like a 

cloud,

lulling

me to sleep.

The wheels 

squeak as they

roll.

I had to 

leave it 

behind.

I did not get a new 

one

in America.

MY HIPPO By Jessica C.

Yellow cloth,

Shiny eyes.

My birthday present

from my grandma,

soft

baby

pink ears.

Packing boxes,

Mom’s vase slipped

from her hands,

shattering

on the floor.

One of its shards

sliced

off a piece

of

its

space

green

heart.

My mom sewed

it back together,

mended it

with love and

white string.

Only

two more days

to comfort it.

When we left for

America,

it stayed behind

on the couch.

FAKE MONEY By Sharlene, age 19

Wings fluttering in my hand,

their ink stains my fingers,

their whiteness blinds my eyes.

As I count the bills 

they rustle

through

my

fingers

then drift into my

plastic 

bag.

Safe

GOODBYE, CARE BEAR By Anna, age 9

Its black eyes 

shimmer and

lighten the

room.

A pink flower

fades

on its belly.

I leave it in

the box

my mom

gave me.

She said,

this box

is the

leaving

stuff.

I pulled off the lid.

At the bottom of the box,

a bottle of

cute hot

pink

nail

polish

glanced

at me.

The necklace wrapped

around its neck

shimmered. 

Too light

to come with us

to 

America.