dad is in the garage.
days into spark-light and piles of polyethylene
etched.
soon, he says.
as grandaddy laughs,
rattling the icebox for more beer.

dad’s homemade android:
  the thing.
like a doll polished
& grinning, it
dances for us in the kitchen.

the dog barks, chained in the backyard.

the thing,
do-si-dos for a laugh, catches a glimpse
of the trees beyond the yard,
overheats,
circuits popping into a limp heap of pieces.
  dead.
left to mold-over in the garage.

the days.
the rain.
the cats tiptoeing along the edge of fences
across the street.
the dog barking, chained, &
snapped.
  dead
beneath a truck.

dad is in hysterics.
dad is in the garage,
weeks in and his soaked red knuckles.
mom is drinking with grandaddy.
they rattle the icebox.
  the dog.

the dog dances for us in the kitchen,
reboots and sits.
it digs a pit all night and buries three cats there.
it sleeps on the mound.
it never barks.
it waits there in the backyard, still
& staring into the trees.
  the trees.

Ah!  Another hero
Washed with bleach
Like the Son,
Who is only holy
When rinsed of his
Melanin.  

I wear a white coat
That browns in sunlight -
It appears the moon and I
Will be good friends.

How deep must I scrub
To rid my pores of
The southeast Asian sun;
To wash my hair of Pacific salt?
(Even my mother painted herself
With a European brush).  

How can I know myself
When denied the magma
In my blood?  

It's of no fault of mine
That I've been stripped
Down to resemble a
Colonial caricature -

I've been taught
The victories
And learned
Medals are smelt
In white gold,
But mostly
I've been told
That mixtures separate
And I am mostly
Creme with a dash of coffee.  

A shame!  
Us beige babies must be
Assigned colors
As if palettes were for paintings
Not people -

My family tree has
Cane fields and apple orchards,
So don't act like
You're surprised
When I mention
White isn't the only
Color of my skin.

"What are you?" he asks. "I mean what are you mixed with?"

He does not mean for the question to be rude. He has never seen someone quite like me, and the question has been bouncing around in his head for at least 2 minutes. So he blurts it out.

"Jamaican, Chinese, and White," I tell the stranger. I smile politely and attempt to mask my discomfort.

He only looks more intrigued. He thinks I am odd, oddly beautiful. Like a rare bird he has found. Not a bird one would ever keep. Just something to look at in awe.

"What are you?" the test paper asks, though in a more formal way. "Please bubble your ethnicity." I hesitate. I think about bubbling 3 different races, but I just end up filling in the bubble that says "other".

"What are you?" I ask my mirror. "Are you a freak? Why don't you look like everyone else? Why do they stare at you?"

"You are not pretty," i tell my reflection. "You are just different. The kind of different that no one likes. The kind of different that scares and intimidates people."

My reflection pauses for a moment. She smiles with kind eyes, forgiving my insult.

"You are everything," she tells me. "You are the sun, the moon and everything in between. You are a scorching hot fire, yet you are cold spring water. You are good and bad. You are you and I am, too. But most of all, you are human. Just like anyone else.

My heart breaks every spring break
It breaks for kids like me who watch as others visit their home countries
While we cannot leave the USA
We have to sit and watch people butcher bachata
Watch how they're hips refuse to accept something other than Taylor swift
We listen when they come back with stories of how they thought our food was too different and not “Mexican” enough as if all Latin America is Mexico
We hear the laughs they make at our cousins back home for just being themselves
My heart cannot handle the privilege they wear on their sleeves when they come back
Knowing I might never see my own island
How I am thought it is ***** and dangerous
A place where girls should not be left alone
While they get the clean streets, they get to avoid the gangs
How they assault our girls
Don't tell me to just save my money and go next year
It is not that simple
We don't stay in your resorts
We live en el capital y los campos nunca los hoteles y la vida blanco
Aka the places you never set foot
You go to my island
You buy bracelets de mi bandera
You try to live my roots
But complain when I dare show pride for my people
The hypocrisy breaks my heart
It's blood pours onto my all American soil
Is my island nice?
Tell me do the trees sway as if they are dancing to Anthony Santos?
Do the branches act as the leading man guiding the leaves to swing their stems to beat?
Does the Dominican anthem ring in the hearts of the people
A pride that is new and vibrant radiating off their faces
How they have clear all their schedules to make sure you see the highlights of our land
When you eat do you feel as though each bite was made with the love of thousand of abuelas?
Can you envision the hours she spends over a hot gas stove stirring los habichuelas y arroz
Using what little food they have left over to feed you over their own blood?
Tell me does my island make you proud?
It makes my heart filled with joy
To know my people did something right that you would walk the same land as slaves
That somehow we got enough pride to make sure you had a good time that you were safe that you can have whatever you wanted
On my island
Tell me, what left is there to complain about?
Mi isla es mi corazón, mi sueño, es mi vida
Pero to you it is just another week out the calendar
My heart will break every march
Because when you come back you complain how in the Dominican Republic no one spoke to you in English
And I worry, how you think when Dominicans come here we should speak English
But when you come to our home you don't want us to speak our language
Your hypocrisy hurts
My island does all it can to make you happy
But you are never pleased
What more can we do
You take pieces of us and use them in your portrait of appropriation
You take our pride and use it as joke
My heart breaks
For the children like me
Never seeing their land
Except on Instagram in the middle of march

So I am a mutt
And this is my poem about having split identities
And not knowing who the **** I am
I am Chinese and Irish
Got them green eyes, but eat rice with every dish
Have the freckles, but my first language wasn't English

Back in high school, people called me white washed
But then,
Pointed and called me that Asian
People would sneer, "You aren't even real Chinese"
But there are so many things you all don't see
Like how my Tiger mom screams at home
About getting straight As
Till her shrills leave me frozen to the bone
And when I had a boyfriend she didn't approve of
She yanked my hair
And I cried it wasn't fair
She yelled, "oh I'll give the boys something to stare"
I watched as she cut all of it off
Strand by strand
Like a strong gust of wind blowing all the leaves off the branches till it was bare in winter
The following day at school, my excuse was I needed a new look, so this was her
And meals I don't even know how to translate into English are my comfort food
But I can down some fries and burgers when I'm with the dudes

I embrace both sides of what I am
But people categorize me into one, *******
With my Chinese family
They straight up tell you
You too skinny, too fat, so silly
They say my accent has gotten worse
The anger builds up of embarrassment and hurt
The race makes my face so red, it's like my head will soon burst
There's this underlying feeling of shame, that's the worst
Which side of me do I need to prioritize first?
I'm drowning between the ocean of two separate cultures, I'm submersed
English is the language I think in and I curse
There's so much more I can't even tell you within this verse

Oh the irony doesn't end there
My driving stereotypes are quite the scare
Cause I'm Chinese, automatically I **** at driving
But mixed with Irish, I'm also road raging
It's probably the worst combination
Of a stereotype from two different nations
Ha oh there's more
The drinking stereotype that's for sure
Irish side could down the whiskey much too quickly
But the Chinese typically are easily tipsy
This mix is kind of risky
One turns so incredibly red
And the other can get so drunk, you'd see two heads

I feel I am constantly at war
One side always wanting more

the roots of my people
are winding, twisting,
intricate art in themselves.
our skin—
a million shades of
rain-soaked and sun-kissed.
our bodies meld with
our bamboo, stretching
our fingers
endlessly upwards—
our plum blossoms,
resilient through sheets of snow—
our willows,
soft and airy,
swaying in perfect rhythm
with the wind our land breathes.
we are born of nature—
our voices sharp and nimble;
oxygen leaves our lungs
and carves peaks in the sky,
pierces clouds like
the huangshan—
we move
like no other blood,
fast and flying,
fleet-footed,
ever-flowing.
the roots of my people
are painted in
calligraphy pens and ink,
and it runs through
each of us,
as we stand
tall, serene,
in symbolic tradition,
just like our trees.

i was told that she moved like the wind,
and her eyes carried whispers from the ocean that
her hands breathed like the leaves but

it wasn't till i saw her in the lights,
dancing as the music swirled around
speaking like she could chase away sorrows and
singing because the world depended on her words, that

her voice reminded me of the home where i belong.

I am 'cause of what I'm not
and I want love, y'know, a bit of
everything and nothing at all
and, well, I want myself back.

I want to want myself.
I want to be myself.
I want to connect.
I want to LISTEN, but
why do I have to be so ******* deaf?

I'm in the backseat now,
behind the wheel, but I can't
hear where we're going

Could you turn it down?
I don't think they heard me.
Nice clouds, pretty trees,
I like the gradient of the sky.

Up and up the elevator and
I'm so tired of your words falling
shattered on my ear drums
as they translate into
polyrhythmic fuckery
and I'm left struck dumb
and scrambling for the downbeat

buzzing lights and whirring wires
humming fans and the squealing
of brakes from 16 floors down

sirens blind my mind's eye and
down on the streets I'm losing your words
like a fat pig chasing an anarchist
black mask, no idea
out of breath

Gah! Whisper in my ear, please.
I just want to climb all the hills and
valleys of your words and swim in
every nuance of their inflection

I just want to be a gift
Present, and able to
unwrap your song

frogs "croaking"
in front of me, in the reeds
crickets "chirping"
behind me, in the brush
countless coyotes "yelping"
from across the lake
bass, carp surfacing
under a yellow moon
unaware its shimmering shaft’s
a magnet to my eye  
and more lullaby to me,
who can yet see spectral waves
but lost cherished vibrations--like birdsong,
winsome whispers--eons ago

she says
my heart is too big
it barely fits
i say
i can feel
the veins
slithering down my
wrists i was born
with walls so thick
no human eye
could see where i
began and where
i ended i
could feel
my heart hammering
away at my ribcage
it wanted to get out
when they tore
down the walls
and brought me into
this world they
didn’t cut deep enough

she talks
in pulses and palpitations
and every time
my heart flutters
she loses her breath
i tried to tear
the walls down myself
i couldn’t cut deep enough

she says
something
a thump a thump
thump but
my heart is too big
it’s the only
thing i hear
the only thing
i know there’s not
enough room for two
i can feel
my veins overflowing
i can’t cut deep enough

my heart
my big, big heart
spilling through my ribcage
it wants to get out

*if i want to let you in
i have to let it out