Poetry

From the attack on Pearl Harbor

to Hiroshima and then Nagasaki.

A small silver speck descends, 

releasing nuclear chain reactions

of annihilation and atomic atrocity. 

Suffocating smoke swallows the sky,

obscuring burning buildings and lighting debris

aflame. The rubble-ridden streets 

are covered in layers of incinerated corpses. 

Radiation steals innocent lives,

as victims vomit their own bile.

Blood seeps through their scorched skin,

like an overflowing stream of death. 

A genealogy of disease and mutation

haunts both humans and wildlife alike.

Once fruitful crops plowed asunder,

and coral reefs housed radioactive fish.

Cancer afflicting all flora and fauna

until the Earth’s resources are no more.

We threaten one another with retaliatory strikes 

in this game of nuclear football. 

Soldiers and civilians fall like expendable pawns 

at the mercy of war-hungry kings. 

This ongoing technological competition

to see who can build the deadliest weapons

will never end the stalemate

of mutually assured destruction.

Nations destroyed for the same reasons

we place multiple locks on our doors

or secure sensitive info with passwords.

We all assume everyone else is evil.

We dropped bombs to end the war,

yet only the dead have seen it.

The lifelong advice of inhaling, exhaling, 

drawing deep breaths is as caring as a mother bear 

abandoning her helpless cubs in autumn. 

Grizzlies yearn for the season-long slumber, 

but instead they fall into torpor, a deep sleep

in which the slightest predatory scent awakens them 

like an alarm clock ringing at six in the morning.  

Bears climb craggy mountains, seeking refuge 

from frigid winter winds and tumbling trees. 

Jagged boulders block the entrance of their future den. 

They roll rocks up the steep incline, into the shadows

of forests, panting from the ordeal,

all to excavate dens that will crumble under seepage 

and erosion, leaving only the outline of their labor. 

Acorns drizzle from the shaking oak; fallen apples 

and nuts follow. Bears must devour the forest’s surplus 

before the fish disappear under deeper waters, 

before the insects perish, and before the plants grow dormant. 

Both students and bears alike stress over impending deadlines.

A bear’s hindered heart rate and respiration in torpor

is like a college student exhausted from burnout.

The words “just calm down” leave me breathless, 

blood boiling from spending every day and night 

flipping through pages of complicated text

or tapping away on the black backlit keyboard.  

After the trees shed their warm-hued leaves,

after the rivers freeze into crystal pavement,

after the gruesome monotony is finally over, 

my heavy eyes fall shut, and I collapse 

until the next task steps foot on my bed of twigs,

triggering a new wave of cortisol; fight-or-flight, 

yet I exert energy better left reserved.

when You asked me to describe our Love

i told You i couldn’t put it into words

i’d have to write it down

You said okay

You know i’m better at that

my best Lady, our Love is patient

You wait for me

every time i have to write it down

and sometimes 

that takes a long time

our Love is patient

our Love is when You are curious

so You ask, so You can know

and then You understand

or, You see it in a way where You don’t have to 

understand

but now You know

more 

about me

best Lady, my best friend, our Love is like no love i have ever known.

how do you explain 

that you love someone because they help you do things 

that you never had the courage 

to ask anyone to help you do before?

like 

when i call You because i think someone may be behind me

but then 

it’s actually no one

and 

i’m not crying out of embarrassment

i’m crying

because our Love holds me in unfamiliar ways

our Love holds me, holds You, holds us

close, even when we are far

we are entangled in our Love

you know that feeling of deep yearning

but you don’t know what you yearn for

you don’t know how to reach that feeling that you need to feel

but you yearn continuously anyway

our Love is relentless

our Love is what i’d been yearning for

but just didn’t know It existed

our Love is understanding

It understands that we feel safe with each other

It understands when we feel smothered by each other

It understands when we feel smothered

and safe

and so

we choose to remain

our Love is not having to kiss everyday

our Love is sparks..when our lips touch

when you make no routine out of love, it remains magic

our Love is comfort in each other

our Love always makes room for us

It never gives up on us

our Love is patient and understanding of us

our Love is You coming out

me staying in

yet we dance to the same beat regardless

that’s Our Love

our Love is Queer and It’s magic

our Love is gentle and our Love is strong

our Love is a kiss on the forehead

when You least expect it

our Love is taking pictures of my muscles as i squeeze with all my might

our Love is the way You embrace my quirks

our Love is emotionally available

for laughter and tears

through cuddles or distance

for what we truly need, our Love is always present

my best Lady, our Love is no shame

which feels unnatural not to have sometimes

shame was once the outermost layer of my skin

and our Love continues to wash away the shame molecules

soon, my melanin will be anti-shame

that’s what our Love is

our Love is Black

our Love is healing to the Soul

our Love is nursing me through panic attacks

no questions

no judgement

no lectures

no demands

our Love is empathy and compassion

our Love is whole

our Love is growth

our Love is learning how to set boundaries 

our Love is support

our Love is holding each other accountable

with grace and comfort

because we understand imperfect is what we are

quality over perfection

our Love is building ourselves into masterpieces

and where there are cracks, we fill them with gold 

and dust it with glitter

our Love is the essence of

moonlight and sunlight

yin and yang

yellow and blue

our Love is the power that flows through our veins

our Love is divine

our Love is feminine

our Love is now, and our Love is the future

no matter where we go

or how much we grow

our Love is love, forever

our Love is in the Universe

our Love is the inspiration 

our Love gave me the courage

to submit my first piece of writing. 

our Love is our connection

my Lady, my best friend, my Love

our Love is all encompassing—so i had to write it down.

Heart racing as if it’s trying to escape the world. Head pounding like a drum, 

I hold my breath and count to ten. 

One. 

Two. 

Three - 

Why won’t it stop?

Dense clouds gather in the sky and begin to cry. 

Fog blankets the ground

Can’t see the road, don’t want to be lost. 

Why won’t it stop?

Red, blue, green, colors fading in and out in blurred shapes 

Tears falling like a rainstorm, 

Why won’t it stop?

Golden leaves falling, lights out by five I don’t want to be alone 

I need you now, before my world begins to spin again. Why won’t it stop?

I need to feel the Hennessey going down my throat mixed with the high. This constant pattern 

allowing me to feel - okay. Even for a short time. Why wouldn't I stop?

“Wow!

Good for you,

She’s so hot.”

He compliments you 

Like I’m your jacket or car. 

Eyes caressing me

Like a piece of candy

That belongs to somebody else.

I’m not a person, 

I’m a symbol for your power

For what you have.

If you weren’t here, 

He would have just itemized 

Me in context to himself.

Something shiny for his shelf.

I walk a little faster,

But you slow and thank him

With a smile.

I can’t say that I’m upset

I don’t really understand it myself.

All I know, is I don’t like feeling

Like one of your things.

You exist somewhere amidst 

My dreams and nightmares.

Charming and coy

A combination of love and lust

Love and hate. 

I dream of you,

Habitually awakening,

A ghost of dreams past.

You are ever escaping me

Here and gone, 

Before the dust has an opportunity to settle.

Flashbacks of us interrupt my days.

Shadows of what could’ve been consume my nights.

I dwell somewhere in between the 

Predictable day and the restless night,

Piercing sunlight and stifling darkness

My dreams and our reality. 

I think of you 

Naive that I only sporadically exist

In your world.

I may not be your world but

I am your home away from home.

I am your secret oasis.

I am your sanctuary of intimacy,

Worshipping when you feel the need.

Still,

We breathe life

Into two lonely souls.

Fingertips and lips,

Determined to caress love back into

Dead bodies housing burning souls. 

I live for nights like these,

Where dark highways and city lights reunite

Brown eyes and lustful lips attempting to 

Love away loneliness.

I sometimes speak softly

Drawing you closer to me

As I dream of the possibilities

I am a few seconds away from 

Telling you that. . .

I sometimes hear your name

Whispered in the wind,

It’s like the universe is

Putting me on notice because

You are Heaven sent.

I sometimes see you

But can’t speak.

You being near,

Has my palms sweaty 

& my knees are getting weak.

I sometimes close my eyes

And attempt to memorize

The little things about you like

Every hair on your head & 

Fleck of gold in your eyes.

I sometimes think about 

Getting bold and reaching out for you.

Then common-sense kicks in

& I remember that we barely know each other.

So, I must be trippin’ once again.

I sometimes feel you near, so

I search for you and as our eyes meet

You routinely throw up the deuces

Or give me a nod which I acknowledge but

It’ll never replace your hand in mine.

I sometimes crave you.

Instead of food

It is you that I need

& although many can’t see

I walk aimlessly

(with hunger in my eyes).

I sometimes wonder

When I’ll be fed.

Since you are my food 

I can only dine 

In the company of you.

I sometimes consider cooking

& this is something I’d only do for you

Because I don’t even cook for myself

& yet,

Thoughts of you have got me

Wanting to be domestic.

I sometimes taste brown sugar

As your name slips from my lips

& even though you’re not around

I feel your eyes on me

As I overdose on your sweetness.

& I’d like to tell you

How much I think of you.

But remember. . .

I 

Only

Sometimes.

As she weeps of old pain because the new hurts worse 

She begins to speak but her voice is a bit hoarse 

So she writes.

And writes. 

Move pen Move. 

Write my suicide letter to perfection.

Move pen Move.

Write till my arms fall off and I have no clue what's next 

Write till my fingers turn blue and I have to get amputations.

Write Till my heart is happy & no longer has sad relations. 

Write till I can no longer even think.

Move pen move. 

Write till you run out of ink. 

Write me a good poem, make a good impression. 

Pen please you're doing so good writing me out of depression.

Pen, write out my poetry while it sits and I bleed . 

But pen please remember that you only write for me.

In an instant,

the pine trees glowed red.

The forest became sick

and the land tainted –

a place where death blooms

releasing its spores

like tendrils into the air –

into the soil, the water, the bodies

of every living creature that calls

this new wasteland its home. We left

forever condemning this land

to be devoid of life –

a barren womb,

a boarded-up house

frozen in time.

But thirty-three years later

the wolves have returned,

along with an abundance

of bison and brown bears,

Przewalski horses and lynx,

and a tranquil hum fills the forest air

from flapping wings of birds and insects

fluttering amongst the green foliage and flora.

They are the promise,

they are the wheel of time –

They have created a new garden

with the damned soil we left behind.

Oba-san tells me spirits are alive

on these hallowed grounds.

She tells me they whisper,

when the last whippoorwill calls,

when the golden hour ceases,

and the lotus-red skies fade to black–

like Oba-san’s hair when she was young,

and she adorned her favorite yukata for Obon–

the color of springtime sakura, petal-pink to contrast

her cascades of silk, tied up in an immaculate topknot.

She tells me the yokai are always here.

They are just overshadowed by the excited chatter–

from pale lips and the pattering of loose change

being dropped on the concrete, left to be trampled like

my Oba-san and her family in ‘42

corralled like cattle–citizens

of one nation under God, indivisible–

a divide was made, fault lines fractured

across the Pacific, the sun sets

on the land of the rising sun.

Oba-san tells me spirits are alive

on these hallowed grounds.

She tells me they whisper,

when the last whippoorwill calls,

when the golden hour ceases,

and the lotus-red skies fade to black–

like Oba-san’s hair when she was young,

and she adorned her favorite yukata for Obon–

the color of springtime sakura, petal-pink to contrast

her cascades of silk, tied up in an immaculate topknot.

She tells me the yokai are always here.

They are just overshadowed by the excited chatter–

from pale lips and the pattering of loose change

being dropped on the concrete, left to be trampled like

my Oba-san and her family in ‘42

corralled like cattle–citizens

of one nation under God, indivisible–

a divide was made, fault lines fractured

across the Pacific, the sun sets

on the land of the rising sun.

Black hair and slanted brown eyes.

These are the most telling features

of where we may come from.

Then the fair skin. Either 

really tall or really short. 

Big nose and small mouth.

We are mostly quiet 

but when we open our mouths

we sound angry and every

other word is followed by ching chong.

We only eat rice,

noodles, and occasionally

the neighbor’s pet

or some other weird shit.

But we stay super skinny

so that we can fit into

our designer brand clothes.

Purchased with the money

we make from being doctors,

scientists, mathematicians

even nail salon owners.

Like we called dibs on these jobs

since conception and buried

our faces in books all our life

as if the words on the pages 

were sun rays and we the plants.

You see, we couldn’t get bad grades.

It’s apparently not in our genes to.

And to get anything less warranted

a beating from a feather duster.

But, wait! Apparently, we all

know martial arts and are ninjas

so dodging attacks is no big,

as we move around

vocalizing like Bruce Lee.

Yes, Bruce Lee is Asian

so that basically means 

we’re all related to him.

Which is so cool…

Except for we’re not

all related to him

because not all

of us are Chinese.

Some of us are Korean,

Vietnamese, Japanese,

Cambodian, Thai, Loas, 

Hmong, Indian, Filipinos or Filipinas

and the list goes on.

But we’re not just one

or the other. Rather, a hotpot

mixed in a multitude

of flavors. Chilies from

the South and herbaceous

remedies from the east. 

Not all of us have black

hair or slanted brown eyes. 

Some of us are sun-kissed

and just about right in height

with proportionate ratio

in mouth-nose.

For us, listening

without trying to get a word

in is valued. Speaking loudly

reveals our confidence.

It’s true we eat most

meals with rice and noodles

are occasional but we don’t eat

our neighbor’s pets.

Not all of us wear Gucci,

Louis Vuitton, or Supreme. 

Some of us are doctors

and others hold a humble

job just to make ends meet.

Our grades are sometimes high,

sometimes low and we share 

the same amount of passion

for education as our peers.

Meaning we procrastinate

like hell when it comes

to essays and stress out

during finals.

Discipline exists 

in every household

either by feather duster 

or broomstick.

We are not ninjas, though

it would killer to be one.

And before you ask,

no, we do not all come

from Asia. Some of us

are born in the US

and while noticing

the things that tie

us to our cultural roots

don’t forget that we

are also American.

We live in a society

where people like to give words

new meaning. Modified definitions.

Mix and stir language 

around for their convenience.

Letting themselves hear

only what they want,

Not what is said.

Whole words, sentences,

hit their ears

only to bounce off

and reassemble 

until “No” means “Yes”, 

“Stop” no longer has power,

and “Back Off” only makes 

them advance further.

We’ve been taught 

that language 

is powerful. Our weapon,

that lies in wait

behind our tongues 

to attack and humiliate, 

defend and heal.

Bend the world to our will.

So why wasn’t it enough?

For the woman who said back off,

For the man who said stop,

For the girl and boy who said no?

We’ve been taught

that actions

speak louder 

than words.

Only when we 

react with our bodies 

does our voice have weight.

Only when we scratch and kick,

left with bruises and scars

will we then be heard.

And then there’s that saying,

violence is never the answer.

Oh, how society contradicts!

If language is our weapon,

then words are our ammunition,

and when we open our mouths

it will ricochet in the eardrums,

pierce the brain,

and penetrate the heart. 

If language is powerful,

let it not be a mere whisper,

let it be louder than action. 

Let it be understood, 

believed, 

Ingrained in us 

that words alone speak 

volumes.

my hands are desert canyons

cracked and red

sapping precious moisture

leaking away slowly my life’s blood

my thoughts are debt collectors

unrelenting and unfeeling

harassing me all hours of the day and night

pushing me ever closer to the edge

the sun is a playground bully

taunting and teasing

beckoning me out

driving me back in with hard cold

my job is a cesspool

teeming and bustling

dirtying me

exposing me 

with every breath under that roof

the news is venom

embellishing and down-playing

coursing through

necrotizing me word by word

I need to smile because I'm too beautiful to be frowning. 

I need to stop swearing. Good girls don’t say bad words. I’ll never get a man talking like that.

I need to have longer hair. Men don't like it when girls have short hair- it’s just not feminine! My man must hate my hair.

I need to stay thin. My man likes me how I am. No one wants to look at a fat bitch.

I need to tell him who I'm wearing this red dress for. 

I need to wear "real pants" and not leggings.

I need to show a little more skin.  No man wants a prude.

I need to dress modestly. Men can't control themselves around women who show “too much” skin! I’m asking for it, dressing like that.

I need to be grateful when I get catcalled. What, no thank you? Fuck you, bitch, I just wanted to give you a compliment. I’m not some creep!

I need to reject him politely. 

I need to give him my number. He just wants to be friends. My man doesn’t let me have friends?

I need to speak quietly. Men don’t like women who are too loud. It’s not sexy, it’s intimidating.

I need to give him a chance, because who knows… I could learn to love him!

I need to be smart when I go out. Don't drink alone. Always watch my drink get poured. Take it directly from the bartender.

I need to protect myself. Don't walk alone at night. Carry pepper spray. Carry a stun gun.

I need to save myself. My future husband doesn’t want a used woman. 

I need to get married soon. I’m getting to be an old maid. A woman's purpose is to have and raise children and care for her husband. 

I need to have a baby. I’d be such a good mom. Women who don't have children are selfish. My mom deserves grandchildren! I’ll change my mind when I meet the right man.

--after Reconstruction of Pluto and Persephone by Nancy Mee, 1999

Gentility. Strength.

Her pushing, him pulling.

Must break free, must remain; duality.

The river. Cold steel.

It flows, it is unyielding.

Desire. Fear.

The current. Let it take you.

Now, a torrent,

she runs. He grips skin and fleshy hips.

Pulsing. Feel the heat.

Fight it!

The sweetness. The toxicity.

Transparency. Opacity.

Nothing between them, only sweat.

The throes. The passion. The agony.

Complacency. Comfort.

She can’t overcome it, that pull.

Staying. Remaining. Slowly decaying inside.

Pillaged and sutured.

Crudely stitched together by 

indifferent hands with

railroad tracks and highways.

Her flesh stained.

Never treated, only spread

like perspiration.

Discoloration 

slowly overtaking a shirt.

Green life turns dead, colorless.

She rots away

and the disease spreads.

Like locusts, 

we eat everything in our path.

She burns, flames spreading.

Blamed on natural changes

but clearly scorching her,

cruelly cauterized.

Our short-sighted, callous

abuse piles up.

We recklessly tear 

her apart layer by layer.

Can we ever repair the

injuries inflicted by our

greed and our disregard

for her?

Can the flames 

be extinguished?

Can the stains

be lifted?

Can the scars left 

by our lazy stitches fade?

Must we disappear

for her to flourish?

I wonder, why do you hate art so much?

Is it because you think

my modifications were a waste of money?

Are you offended because

the God you follow created me,

meant for me to remain pure?

Does your God see me as tainted?

Unworthy?

Do you see me as underserving of respect?

Do you see yourself, unspoiled, above me?

I see my body as a blank slate.

A canvas, waiting to be painted.

I can assure you, 

my art has nothing to do with my work ethic.

I promise that my tattoos

have not robbed me of my compassion,

nor am I looking to corrupt

the leaders of tomorrow 

with my heathen ways.

This ink does not weigh down my soul.

I have not become cruel.

“Tattooed” is not synonymous with “indecent.”

It’s not a phase I’ll regret later.

Your art is on the wall.

Mine is on my skin.

I’ll look just as good as you in fifty years or so.

I’m alone with myself

I'll have a heart attack, the anxiety

these shivers and fried eyes

they're starting to look right back at me

raising my hand to wait for an empty room

to answer a question that I don’t need to ask

it's the numbness and the fumbling,

frazzled and fizzing, distracted and dilated,

still muddled and mumbling.

I can't let myself throw my keys off the bridge

for I need them, when I joyously jerk my car into a ditch

for when my nerves all disconnect from my fingertips

and I don't have to feel like a roller coaster

breaching up above the waves, exposed to the salty mist

a little terrified by the height, yet free and sun kissed

yet plummeting, simultaneously

into the crevices of a pine cone, decimated in stature

rolling along into the blankets, huddled throughout the rapture.

But of course, there were no signs

There were no signs because

She was the city planner

She was the civil engineer

the landscaper,

the mayor,

the emergency services,

She plastered you with circles and arrows

Posted warnings and named all the places

Before you had even learned how to read

And once you did learn to read,

It was with the aid of

Her dictionary...

Paved over the rough terrain

Crossroads that lead straight back into town

Or to unmapped territory,

Deep into the heart of

A queer wilderness

Where you can finally

Create a new settlement

Of your own design

It's not just a shade.

It's not just something we put on.

Sure, it makes us feel pretty,

But it's so much more than that.

It makes us feel

Strong. Powerful. Determined. Passionate.

Red.

We wear it for us.

Not for you, not to draw you in,

We wear it because we can.

So, the next time you see us wearing it,

Think deeper about the reasons why.

We wear it

Winter snow falling

One cold February night

Light white flakes falling.

Everyone feels joy

A white winter wonderland

For new adventures.

 And then there is me

Who hates the cold, wet, falling snow.

It brings no joy.

Walking the next day

Everything covered in white

It brought a cold calm.

As the day went on

Watching the snow fall calmly

My mind and heart changed

Feeling that sharp wind

Like little knifes on my face

The change continues.

Looking up gives peace

Arms open - catching snowflakes

On my warm wet tongue.

As the sky changes

Into winter night calm sky

I start to feel happy.

From something so small

It brings a sense of wonder

And a change in heart.

A young Asian man

speaks in Chinese.

I don’t understand a word,

I don’t see who he is talking to,

I don’t turn around,

until I realize that he is talking

to me. 

I confess that I do not have a complete 

understanding of the language,

but then he looks at me as if I were 

a puzzle. My straight black hair,

soft brown skin, and dark eyes

are the pieces fitting into place,

but without full comprehension

of the language, he sees me  

as missing the last piece.

They try to read my appearance 

like a cover of a book,

which often gives off the stamped

impression that I’m not from here.

Even though it’s been beat into 

our minds many times not to judge

like that overused book cover metaphor,

my cover still often seems to prompt 

the question 

Where are you from?

When the book finally opens, 

and the untouched pages turn, 

the words inside

reveal my own history book

that will state

where I’m really from -

is America,

and that my story has never had

any missing pieces.