i met a man in a church
outside of manila
who asked how i could stand
living in a country so cold.
amerika, he said,
felt wrong to me.
he asked if it was
cold still.
if it still felt like the land
wanted to stick *******
down its throat and throw me up
and up and away. and gone.
not the land. i wanted to say
not the land but this dress, ginoo,
this body and this name
and what you’ve gotta understand
is that there is no flight to someplace
warmer when the cold is etched
into your chromosomes.
but the only words i could
speak in his tongue
were yes, it’s cold,
yes.