You grow up hearing two languages. Neither fits your fits
Your mother informs you "moon" means "window to another world."
You begin to hear words mourn the sounds buried inside their mouths
A row of yellow windows and a painting of them

Your mother informs you "moon" means "window to another world."
You decide it is better to step back and sit in the shadows

A row of yellow windows and a painting of them
Someone said you can see a blue pagoda or a red rocket ship

You decide it is better to step back and sit in the shadows
Is it because you saw a black asteroid fly past your window

Someone said you can see a blue pagoda or a red rocket ship
I tried to follow in your footsteps, but they turned to water

Is it because I saw a black asteroid fly past my window
The air hums-a circus performer riding a bicycle towards the ceiling

I tried to follow in your footsteps, but they turned to water
The town has started sinking back into its commercial

The air hums-a circus performer riding a bicycle towards the ceiling
You grow up hearing two languages. Neither fits your fits

The town has started sinking back into its commercial
You begin to hear words mourn the sounds buried inside their mouths


About This Poem
"'Music from Childhood' is a pantoum that refers to the fact that I grew up in a household in which two languages were spoken. The repetition-and the fact that every line is repeated-seemed appropriate to the subject."
-John Yau

About John Yau
John Yau is the author of "Further Adventures in Monochrome" (Copper Canyon Press, 2012). He teaches in the visual arts department at the Mason Gross School of the Arts at Rutgers University and lives in New York City.

***
The Academy of American Poets is a nonprofit, mission-driven organization, whose aim is to make poetry available to a wider audience. Email The Academy at poem-a-day[at]poets.org.


(c) 2016 John Yau. Originally published in Poem-a-Day, www.poets.org. Distributed by King Features Syndicate