Near the kitchen window,
               overlooking the brick canyons
                              of this somber city,

where narrow alleys
               channel and hold
                              the echoes

of countless curses hostage,
               blowing up
                              through the streets

of damp laundry on the line
               chasing down the concrete alleyways
                              where antagonists never let up,

and fear follows
               as fast and furious
                              as a little girl’s running legs,

my father is reading names out of a book,
               searching for the new label
                              that signifies I am here,

the arrow’s irreversible trajectory,
               a branding like cold fire on my skin.
                              Letters for the strokes

I am used to counting before I look up
               an ideogram in the Chinese dictionary,
                              six strokes for my last—

No, my first name—Stone,
               who is rough and jagged,
                              wearing smoother each day

I learn to run away from home.