The City I Cannot Leave By Nancy Hom

I cannot leave San Francisco;

my roots have spread too wide and deep.

From the fog-capped hills of Twin Peaks

to the grit of Market Street, I have

seeped into every crevice of the city.

I have joined the fools and dreamers

who love mango walls and red satin shoes.

Naked and tattooed, or in leather and lace,

from Fillmore to Folsom, they kick their feet,

drenched in blues, swaying to sexy sax,

blowing poems into the velvet night.

I have been seduced by the Mission:

its mariachis, murals, and myriad cultures.

Guadalupe and Buddha, Santana and

Sandinistas side by side on Valencia Street.

Balmy alleys bursting with color,

Carnaval sequins sparkling in the sun.

I cannot leave Manilatown where

bonds were forged in common battle

for dignity and a place to call home.

Where Al Robles and Bill Sorro’s spirits

roam the halls of SROs to remind us

to savor the smell of fish and bagoong

and never forget the taste of the sea

from which we came.

I cannot leave Chinatown with its huddles

of Toisan elders in Portsmouth Square

bent over chess, pink plastic bags in hand.

The erhu’s shrill lament on Grant Avenue

of villages left behind. The clack of

mahjong tiles and the clang of dishes

as waiters and gamblers curse

in the backrooms of restaurants.

I am that waiter’s daughter, that gambler’s

niece. I am that dancer, that painter,

that weaver of words. I am the fighter,

the holder of grief, the bearer of songs.

I will be here when the winds whip down

and the sidewalk’s soaked with heavy rains.

I will be here where the mud is deep

and the trees are bent by sudden storm.

The roads are pitted; the climb is high;

but the view is vast in the city I cannot leave.

First published in Namjai: A Tribute Anthology of Bay Area Asian Pacific Islander Poets