In Singapore, rain speaks first:

percussion on zinc roofs,

the air rinsed of heat,

frangipani loosening noon.
In Sydney, rain hesitates:

a thought stalled in the sky,

then falls on bitumen,

on eucalyptus breathing itself awake.
I learned Malay from my grandmother’s mouth:

how air could mean water and breath,

how jalan was road and way forward.

The words tasted of turmeric and steam,

of rice listening for fullness.
English came later:

flat vowels, edged consonants,

a language fond of distance:

footpath, backyard, forecast.
Here, rain is measured,

discussed, postponed.
Between Orchard Road and Parramatta Road

my tongue learned to turn,

to answer one place with another.

I say home and hear two doors open:

one to tiled floors cooling bare feet,

one to verandas holding dusk.
The cities speak through me now.

I translate without knowing

which voice began the sentence.