Becoming a Whiter Bone by Olivia Hu In 1968: my mother carried me in the small of her back, the North as kerosene-lit dream. Footsteps smalling to the America that did not love her, her limbs tangled yellow in spelling unlearned song. Archipelago of home. America loved the flaxen of whiskey and fries, my mother said, a yellow that differed from her bead-strung skin. She laughs at her own jokes partly to forget how the compass lines slowly shifted to crosshairs. To remember also how to open a mouth without twisting it. She wishes me a whiter acrylic, her eyes lined tight with what has entered and left.