They Call me Oriental

(Inspired by Alysia Kayla Vargas’ “I am Not a Latina”)

They see my eyes as slits.

But these slits are like the sea line,

the depths are full of creepy crawlies

who shout “pork fried rice”

and laugh at the joke

they believe is my ethnicity.

 

Don’t call me your dumpling,

your egg roll,

or your fortune cookie.

Don’t call me your anything.

I am not yours at all.

 

They call me oriental,

as if my whole being

fits into an eight letter word.

They call me oriental,

as if my whole being

wasn’t made of fractals

of light and stars.

They call me oriental,

even though

they shouldn’t call me at all.

Advertisements

Right to Write

The orangutan leads bleating sheep

to a cliff lip that stretches

over ignorant oblivion.

He scratches to pretend

he knows what flea bites

fee like, but we know he sleeps

on a cloud of Cleveland’s and Madison’s,

though he doesn’t know who they were, only

that he is better than them.

 

He shouts fake news with a sneer,

forcing all the sheep to hear

solid stupidity in their ears.

It rings like a jackhammer,

relief is not imminent,

and neither is salvation.

If he wants to know what persecution

feels like, he should just speak

in front of a mirror.

 

For he sees color as danger,

all colors represent something

he cannot understand.

He is a blank slate of petrified,

screaming to anyone who will hear

of the great old days

while whispering

of the k

k

k.

 

He screams fake news,

but the news answers him

with scandals

and body counts.

His numbers do not add up

when held up against the saving light

of an informed reality.

 

The orangutan would remove

our right to write,

our right to live,

our right to fabricated happiness.

The sheep will bleat,

and the crows will cackle.