Main Content
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.
