We travelled on a bus
to Grandpa's home town,
four hours across the border,
where bulls stared at dump trucks.

Father talked to two boys
in a language we didn't understand
told us 'these are your cousins'.
They asked questions with their eyes.

But we failed to answer -
they didn't speak Cantonese or English.
And with frequent sips of water,
we legitimised our silence.

My ears were burning
while my brother's head hung low.
It was the closest we could be.
Cousins are bound only by blood.

On the bus homewards,
I wondered if they would also
write a poem about me
in another language.