Sylvia speaks to me in tongues
That no one else understands.
And the words she whispers
Collectively poison me.
slowly.

She speaks of love songs
And of thunderbirds that
Do not return,
And I wonder if she was
Speaking about you
and me.

But Sylvia, unlike I, did not
Understand that there
Was more to life
Than diaphragms and
Of forgotten lovers -

she did not have you like I do.

as silence escapes
your quivering, timid lips,
my valves desist (they are rebellious).

but like the dark birds
that depart to seek refuge,
(there is none) they return to proper order.

and again, i am
at peace with myself-
with the world and with your empty reflection.

it is my red chest
(not my heart) that pains me so.
and the hired help refuses to answer my calls.

postmortem, shallow;
used to define what is left
of the shell that sits, lonely, on my dresser.

i find no answer
for the questions you don’t ask.
yet your eyes cast down, as if i disappoint.

(let’s pray that this passes.)

Acknowledge my smile, return it,
Yet love is still deferred by the glass planes
Of your ribs, guarding your heart from my greedy hands.

Like a serpent’s tongue my own seeks its home,
Behind my lips that belong against yours,
That taste of fruit from the garden of Eden.

I cannot help that glutton plagues me
Of the lust and love of your throbbing pulse,
Satiate my wanton needs and my aching veins.

Desperately, I cried, like the watchmaker,
Whose palpitations become erratic when he hath no business,
And when he cannot fix something so simple as the cadence of his own heart.

Close your eyes, open your soul, judas tree.
Forge your wisdom and your listening ears,
Lift my hands, shut my mind and set me free.

Your lips taste much like cherry jubilee,
A macédoine that hastily shifts my gears.
Close your eyes, open your soul, judas tree.

I promise, to an adequate degree,
It is indeed you that assuage my fears.
Lift my hands, shut my mind and set me free.

I beg the high courts, to what degree
That I must be controlled by puppeteers.
Close your eyes, open your soul, judas tree.

In the high waters, much beyond the sea,
Come with my love, vacation in Tangiers.
Lift my hands, shut my mind and set me free.

There isn’t time for you to disagree,
Before the discolored autumn appears.
Close your eyes, open your soul, judas tree.
Lift my hands, shut my mind and set me free.

Your hands meet mine yet I feel no such warmth beneath,
Like as in your heart - your pulse is beating but it bears no love.
It does not sing a song that wins over the robins that wake us in the morn',
And it does not seem to make me flit nervously as a child would.
(Those etiquette lessons did not do me much justice – I still fidget.)

I may be beautiful today - rose-stained cheeks and chandelier eyes,
But you must understand that this white dress, drowning in lace and beading,
Is similar to your own outfit as well, dashing young gentleman - we are trapped.
Just a marriage of convenience, isn't it? Like what your mother said to you.
(As what mine has said to me. It seems as if we have found something in common.)

It is like the sacerdotal man, dressed in his ornate robes, does not care much for us;
As if his readings of the words of the Lord rectifies our loveless union.
And as his voice trails off and he orders you to touch upon my lips with a kiss,
I can’t help but tighten my mouth and pretend that you’re my prince charming.
(How I wish to shove our vows down his throat, to make him take this all back.)

The audience stands tall and proud and claps with a feigned enthusiasm,
Galvanizing the church with fraudulent hope and happiness.
I am the docile blushing bride, and as you lead us out of the threshold,
I cannot help but wonder how two people could have destroyed such a beautiful thing.
(We are murderers of matrimony, aren’t we, dear? Not much better than a petty criminal.)

The iron monster tempts her closer
with a rusty soul
glistening bolts
and a wide-mouthed brim
of steel and secrets.

Her eyelids
fall to her lashes
anticipating the dreams that
weigh heavy on her heart
of underwater cities and
of things that were meant
to be.

The drop isn’t much too far
but she hangs onto its copper body
and for once
she is afraid.

But the clouds serve as a witness
and the friendly waves
down below
call to her.

The sun approaches quietly
once more,
just like yesterday
just like she practiced.

Except today
she isn’t interrupted
by unsmiling visitors
Mr. Ford, Mr. Lincoln
and their friends

with their minds pumping
and their engines roaring.

When they ask me, what is your nationality?
I falter; should I say Chinese? Or should I say American?
Because I am, well, both.

My white, black, and hispanic friends ask me for my name
And I respond, Julia, confused because they already know it.
But they shake their heads and laugh, their big eyes glittering,
And their pale skin blushing.

We mean your Chinese name, they say.
And I blush, too.
I mutter, Mun Jee.

Because I am ashamed that the name
Sounds as foreign on my tongue as it does on my friends'
When they repeat it over and over again.

Jook sing is the term that my mother
And my grandmother
And my relatives from China
Use for my brothers, my cousins, and I.

It means lack of filial piety.
It means challenging traditions and values.
It means we are illiterate in the tongues of our ancestors.
It means American-Born.

ABC aren't only letters of the alphabet,
because it is an acronym too:
American Born Chinese.