Dim Sum

Weathered faces beam across the table

as steam rises from bamboo baskets

which hold the treasures of Ha Gao,

Ha Churn, and that weird gray stuff

that looks like cut up brains.

(It’s actually cow intestines.)

 

Tea spills over cups as liquor

rides a rush through myveins.

They laugh at the dropped food

from shaky chopsticks,

they laugh at the As

that should have been A plusses.

 

Peanuts dipped in sesame sauce

is redundant, like dipping my black curly hair

into my chinky eyes.

They are made of the same damn thing.

 

Full blooded cousins tell me I don’t belong,

I never have, with my lack of an accent,

my lack of demurring, my lack

my lack

my lack

my lack.

I’ll tell you what I fucking lack.

That “oh whatever you want to do,

is fine, honey” that springs

to their lips as soon as

confrontation hits.

 

That “I’m really good at math

but I can’t pronounce my R’s,

ha ha ha”

 

That hate for the mutts,

of those people who had the balls

to escape from the misogynistic culture

by marrying into another, slightly less

shitty culture.

 

That Asian culture,

where a man brings home the bacon

and the women tries everything

available to her to stay

stupid

and

pretty.

 

I’ll take my curly off jet black hair,

my big tits and my handful ass,

my lack of accent and lack of self-hate,

my light wood eyes…

I’ll stay pretty,

but I won’t be stupid.

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Self?

What am I?
Just a silly sad girl.
No matter how I try,
life slaps me and I swirl.

Just a silly sad girl
full of bruises and scrapes,
life slaps me and I swirl
into the open arms of an ape.

Full of bruises and scrapes,
I waltz like a twister
into the open arms of an ape.
“You’re a piece of shit, sir.”

I waltz like a twister,
holding you in no regard.
“You’re a piece of shit, sir.”
I am my own guard.

Holding you in no regard,
no matter how I try…
I am my own guard.
What am I?

Enchanted

Fairies buzz around your head,

lifting locks of silver and threading them to gold.

Fairies dance about your crown,

admiring themselves in your pair of cobalts.

The nymphs are singing

from under the floor;

a song of restless seduction.

The water is steep and you

have many miles to go,

before you sleep;

before you sleep.

 

You’ve walked in the woods

during a snowy evening.

Lights pass through trees;

a makeshift kaleidoscope of perspective.

There are those who have never seen light

but we don’t talk about them anymore

they live under floorboards and cellar doors

just the sight of those

yellow eyes gleaming in the absence of light

can send shivers down your spine.

 

There is no your kind,

or his kind

or Her Kind.

 

“Illegals” is not a noun.

 

There is our kind

and we have always been

right

here.

Bruises

different colors

splash across the canvas

of his body.

 

Blue is surrounded by a greyish

tinge, circled by yellow

that spreads out until all

is the night sky.

 

Stars are cigarette burns.

The only gift he has from his mother.

 

They had seen him with bags

of garbage in his hand.

They must have mistaken

them for signs demanding freedom.

 

 

One,  pipe that weighs a ton.

Two, front teeth crunch under a shoe.

Three, they don’t see him bleed.

Four, their voices roar.

 

He curls into himself

maybe then they won’t see

how his lip bleeds from his teeth

sinking through the appendage,

just so he stays still,

and doesn’t matter.