How is it,
you ask

and when we open our mouths,
instead you devour the words,

waving utensils,
knitting your eyebrows
like the crochet tablecloth.

Dinnertime conversations revolve
around loud voices
as we wipe our lips with
napkins –

tinged with
regret and bitterness

and sip from our glasses
filled to the brim with
liquid lava,
warmly trickling down our throats –

choking on sobs.

We eat off the plates that
contain nothing but
crumbs –

leftovers of our dreams,

and excuse ourselves while
shoulders slump
and the last bite of remorse

melts away
and when

the words have made the air
heavy.

The sun sets and the bedroom doors
close and we are left

with fingers on our lips
and suppressing laughter

shaking our shoulders.

Yet the wind is warm and
so is your arm linked with mine
as we brush the callous grains away

quickly
together,

our arms moving
in unison.

Smooth and complete
with lines that
promise longevity

and light
hearted just like us,
you whisper.

all you want are pretty girls
with painted lips and bright eyes.
girls with soft voices and
soft hands and soft hearts.
girls with their necks on yours
and hips on yours
and lips on yours.

girls one in a million,
but a dime a dozen.

feel the rush of the wind against your cheeks,
and taste the arid air, suddenly interrupted by torrential downpours.

warm. wet. moist.

scintillating dewdrops in the midst of gray skies and hot weather.
fog masking our view.
coquette: her skin plump and soft, like peaches.
thin fabrics tinged with the slightest traces of sweat.
and the sweetest scent of summer.

night falls again and
i’m racing against the clock and
for some reason, i’m losing.

quiet murmurs escape your lips and
the taste of persimmons and
strawberry lip balm linger.

dissipating slowly, your skin and
your voice and
your face.

i wake up
to blinking messages
that i managed to ignore
because my lids were fastened shut.
i have a tendency to fall asleep
during conversations.

but i love tuesday mornings,
(this semester, at least)
because that extra hour
and a half
of sleep
keeps me going through the day.

i spent most of the morning
browsing through
missed connections
on craigslist.

i wonder,
maybe one of these are for me.
maybe i’ll find my soul mate.
or maybe i’ll get kidnapped.

three hour lectures
are the least favorite part of my tuesdays.
that
and math.
i don’t understand matrices.
but i’m too proud to ask for help.

i slept, though.
in art
because i couldn’t
seem to focus
on industrial design
or my
professor’s racist
and sexist remarks.

but at least the day’s over.
and i managed to get
home
right before it started
to rain.

law and order
is on.
maybe i want to be
a police officer.
just like
when i watch house,
i want to be a
doctor.

my stomach has never hurt
so hard
from laughing because i’ve met
some of the best people
to share it
with.
it’s two in the morning
and we decide
perhaps it is time to start
the work that we should’ve
done ahead of time.
and in the morning,
we promise we’ll finish
but instead
we sit and laugh, again.
this time, inappropriately.
the professor’s watching,
and we aren’t getting our work done.

the mexican restaurant
ironically run by asians
is closed.
again.
i’m craving enchiladas.
so i make do with second tier
ones from gramercy.
they’re not bad.
but i prefer
the ones from the mexican restaurant
run by asians.

i sit bundled up,
half free-writing, half asleep,
and i take the person sitting in front of me
and use them to my advantage.
perhaps if i move my head
just a little to the left,
the professor won’t see me
nodding off to sleep.

(i just wanted a little nap).

but i resist
and we present
half-heartedly.
i don’t think we really cared
about the new chancellor
about bloomberg
and about joe torre.

the library brings a welcome change,
and i see a familiar face.
and we sit together
and we laugh
and before we know it,
it’s time for class.
again.

this time,
i make haste
to allow my eyelids to flutter
until they are cemented shut
as Descartes is explained to us
by our passionate
but flighty
professor.

i wake up in time
to be assigned into a group.
(what are we arguing again?)
something about the senses
and how to use them.
and whether we are certain.

i dislike debates like this.
i feel uncertain already.
and philosophy
makes me even more uncertain.
uncertainer. uncertainest.

the train ride home is a haze.
and i am glad to be home.
even though the living room
is missing
its lively chatter
half
from my parents
and half
from the television.

but they’ll be home soon,
and all will be right.

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.

I took a leap of faith and fell
Through the opening of the clouds.
Frowning as they failed to break my fall -
My unreliable shrouds of confidence.
But as I make my landing by your side,
I find I have no such qualms.

A smile, a slight wave of the hand,
And I fall over again and again;
I pick my bones and my heavy body up
But I always forget to retrieve
That pulsating beat you hear
Behind your head and against your palms.

Handle with care, I beseech of you,
But you hear not of my words;
You are too far away, your pace is too fast
And all that is left are half-truths and a mess.
So I search and seek for those very
Words of affirmation in your sacred psalms.