Praise my window bringing in morning light
And the click of the door when I open it
Praise my soft pillow
The radio with its chime of voices to help me wake up
Praise the cup of tea
The warmth heating the palms of my hands

Praise the silence
My mother’s chatter on the phone
Praise the music
Filling up my room with sound

Praise the cookie jar
A solid holder of sweets
The sky with shifting clouds
And the package from a place far away
Finally landing by the door

After the day is done
And the doors are closed shut
After my mother and I eat dinner
After I read on my bed until I close my eyes
Praise comes for another day

– Annie Yu

This poem is featured in the exhibition This Place Called Poetry.

The #30 bus on Stockton street
Stops suddenly
launches my sister and I forward
towards the crowded doors
we jump off the bus
dodging the elderly Chinese ladies
who walk slowly across the street
their backs hunched
hands burdened
with red plastic bags of fresh fish and ripe fruit

for an afternoon snack
I like to peel oranges
ripe flesh is easily torn away
the sticky sweet juice fills my mouth
clings to my fingers

my mother buys pineapple buns for lunch
they are plump and topped with a flaky golden crust
with only a slight resemblance to a pineapple’s skin
its crumbs fall into my lap as I eat

my sister and I run down the streets on Saturdays
on the way to dance class
mirrors echo us as we warm up at the barre
I suck in my tummy and stretch my legs
The chatter of girl giggles collapses
as we sink into the first position

I flail my arms like the fluttering of red fans
the way we leap up and hit the dusty floor
cracks like the snap of children’s firecrackers
striking the narrow sidewalks

real firecrackers burst through the sky
sparks flower into the night
what remains
wind pulls remnants of red paper
into the bakery’s doors

– Annie Yu, 18

From “Tell the World,” published by HarperCollins