terza rimas, quatrains, or strict form, because Life often spills
outside da lines! Just like paint, just like pain, papi ~ just like
there are no words in English to describe to you
da Han of Hannah’s parents ~ who carried memories
of war in their inner children, who as nail salon owners
would never have a chance to afford or go to therapy,
as they are country people of green valleys and full harvest moons,
all their golden beauty lost in cold white cities where their names
are butchered & mispronounced & made fun of daily,
while dollars still soften their callused hands. Hannah’s parents,
overworked & silently missing Soju nights
with watermelon & squid anju & singing Arirang
& Sarang~ga with drunk, sloppy, & happy
Koreans who look & sound just like them ~ a kind of heaven.
They miss that, but cannot articulate nostalgia (Corea) to their born~here~daughter~
the beloved mother~land they left behind to give her this,
swinging golf clubs with thwacking fury over manicured green lawns
so perfect they make a man believe he has freedom.)
They come home when late-night Letterman
blares with canned laughter, long after Hannah
makes her rice & kim & kimchee rolls & tucks
her younger sister into bed, long after all the train rides
and bus transfers & taxi rides that transport their daughter
to the quiet pockets in the playgrounds,
seaports, beaches, corners, stoops, tree stumps that her & her lover use
as backdrops to their quietly blooming romance.
It all starts with a dance, she sighs, in remembrance, she
loves the way he always holds her hand &
pretends to lay out magic carpets in the rain ~
she feels a cartoonish, ballooning, indescribable joy with him ~
her secret, sweet angel tucked in the silver wings of Brooklyn.
Train
She sings, I will love you anyway,
even if you cannot stay, echoing
Mary J as she waits for the R train,
voice husky as coarse grain.
Morning sun at Queensboro Plaza
casts slim white bars on the ground —
mute piano keys commuters pound
with shuffling, transient feet. Are
we all drifters, made of smoke?
She’s on her way
from Bayside to Bushwick,
four subway transfers, two hours away. She
prays for the G to come quickly. She starts to sing,
when the train steals her song with its metal wind.
Rivers
It’s always an adventure to go meet Angel. She prefers to travel
with a flock of her gold~hooped, gum~snapping, cute~curled girlfriends
for a double or group flirt~date instead of alone, becuz as a Chinita,
she has to keep her head humble & eyes down on da train,
not wanting to attract the glare of a jealous girl who may want to slice
her pretty cheek (slashings on da train were all da craze),
or a lurking subway creep. Sometimes tho, another boy
with a thick Nautica jacket & a sweet smile would slide
next to her, say, Hi mami ~ where you going?
And she’d have to balance friendly flirting
with a clipped response, strong but not too tough,
not enuf to be called a stuck-up b*tch or jumped.
Whoever he was would get a message when she said,
I’m going to see my man. Sometimes, they’d still escort her,
in that courteous, crowding way, until they finally gave way
when hearing Angel calling Oooooh oooooh for her down the street.
He reads her face in a second, ay ~ telepathic!, and she
can always tell when mistrust hardens his eyes. She rubs his shoulders
and runs her fingers slowly down the river of his lean, muscular back.
Vietnam
Puerto Rican girls cock hips. Roll eyes. Suck
teeth. Bump her shoulder hard on his block.
Once, Vanessa screamed at Hannah, Go back to Vietnam,
bitch, then turned to Angel and sobbed, Why? Why her? Why not me?
Angel stood, speechless. For him, it was no better.
Stone-faced, balding Chinos on the 7 train
drill holes in his head. Frown. Cock, train
their mouths like handguns ready to spit at him. Or her.
Sometimes, Hannah shifts in her hard orange seat.
Sometimes she throws her leg over his, spits back a stare,
kisses Angel with rough despair.
At home, in the shower, they take time
scrubbing each other’s limbs with care;
white lather, fingers buried in wet hair.
Saints
Angel always wore saints around his wrists
& neck. A gold cross & gold chain with Jesus,
escapularios & beads blessed by a Cuban babalao
given to him by his paralegal cousin Jessie,
and wooden bracelets painted with various haloed saints,
he’s blessed with many. He gently slips
one off his wrist and onto hers…mi amor,
mi luz, mi reina, he softly sings, makes her feel blessed,
sacred, sexy, and sweet. She wears
his gifts with gratitude, changes her attitude
from shy to strong, from soft to bold.
When he’s in the mood,
he traces her shoulder blades with sweet delight,
she shakes, shedding her scales
and blossoms into Woman in his light ~
grateful to be held & serenaded through the nights.
Hot Chips
They’re splayed in bed, watching The Simpsons.
She’s eating a ninety-nine-cent bag of Utz hot chips,
red dust coating her fingers. He’s unbuckled, hips
thrust up. Please. He grins. Please suck
it. No, she snaps. Not now. What
the fuck. She swats him, but his hand keeps
seeking hers. One minute. Ten seconds. Her lips
curl into a grin. Maybe. During a commercial…his luck,
Cheerios bounce on-screen. She groans, wipes her mouth,
ducks down. His feet shoot up like arrows
at the ceiling. Then, he twitches, drools,
throws her off. Stop, he cries. It burns! Hot…hot…hot chips! Dashes out
her room, bathes it in the sink. I’ll get the milk, she cries, and runs below.
Ahhh…He sighs, and dips. She punches him — that’s what you get, fool.
Adidas Prince
Underneath it all, Angel is a gentle man,
there’s a patience in how he courts her,
kneels on one knee to tie her Adidas laces,
even in front of his abuela & his little brother,
Rafi. She blushes, touched, stirred by how he bakes her a chocolate cake
for her sweet sixteen, clenches a rose between his teeth. Tender lover.
She loves how his swagger announces his divinity
at weekend dancehall clubs — he’d hold her hand
and dance for hours with her at Latin Quarters and the Copa,
then hit after~hours clubs like two hot whirlwinds of beauty and grace.
She’d plan elaborate lies to meet him.
