You’re so exotic.
He’d stare into my almond eyes,
one lighter than the other
fingers following the tangled waves
that ran down my shoulder blades.

What was exotic?
My father, blue eyed brute,
born into the Los Angeles slums
when the city lights were still
filled by browning fields.

My mother, unbleached hazel,
proud to say she’s been
an American longer,
than ever a refugee.

You should dye it black.
The tangled waves,
hues of coffee and amber
were never good enough.

You should dress more like them.
I’m sorry,
the pink and blue sampot hol
with silk ruffles and mandarin flowers
don’t match my ***** sneakers,
and for the hundredth time,
it’s not a kimono.
No, I don’t know anyone
who works at that massage parlor
with the women in six inch heels
parading around the golden dragon
out in front.

No, my father didn’t rescue
my mother from the nail salon
and what makes you think
I would know anything about
mail order brides.

Television has taught you
that I should be exotic
and neurotic.
Ready to submit
at the snap of your fingers.

Ready to present,
with a geisha’s poise.
You really expect me to respond?