i am an asian girl
stretched between two
worlds like a hammock.
but listen and please don’t
fall asleep.
it’s not an east meets west
décor in this mind of mine
it’s the art of war
and peace.
there are no delicate dragons,
no full fat creamy leather.
just dead red floppy fish
and limp pizza.
through these brown black eyes
(double lidded; thanks mom
thanks dad)
i watch project runway
america’s next top model
cashmere mafia.
(dear mr. kevin wade:
mason is not an
asian last name.)
with these workhorse shoulders
i play girls’ rugby.
with these mountain province thighs
that bring me miles from home
and warm stomach
where hide the seeds of heartache,
i squeeze shamefully into
size L jeans at yashow.
this skin
brown as the earth after harvest
is a defiant answer to
“are you filipino?” or
“try our whitening cream.”
no, i am not and
i would like to tell you
where you can stick your cream.
somewhere between truth and family
there are lies to save face and sanity,
yours and theirs.
somewhere between a 3.5 and 4.0
there is newton’s second law,
PRGM, QUAFORM, ENTER,
and a scarlet letter confession.
i am an asian girl
and this is
an asian girl poem.