Three Poems
Taboo
For me, the word is
xenophobia,
not racism,
although I’m black
haired, brown eyed, as fair skinned
as white people. I’m called yellow
in this country.
In the BLM protest, people asked me,
Why are you even here?
I heard the same question
in Owens-Thomas House in Savannah,
where a black woman served
as a guide to a group of tourists,
all white except me
and my non-English-speaking parents.
I did my best to whisper in Chinese
the parts I could understand:
See the roll of mat under the bed?
It’s for the slave to sleep on the floor,
so she can take care of her master’s baby
in the night.
Why are you guys here?
The guide asked me
with a smile
at the end of the tour.
Well, we come to see the house.
I didn’t mention my interest
in the history, a topic
I may not be legitimated
to touch,
like a bleeding wound
to be re-traumatized.
When We’re Waiting for Trump’s New High-Skill Immigration Restrictions
Mom disagrees with us buying a house
unless we TRULY settle down
(be able to work, retire and die
somewhere).
That seems to be an impossible goal
when both of us are still on student visa,
with two sons American-born.
We’re even not qualified
for home loan, making homeowner
a joke, though I never doubted
I do own a home
in our rented apartment.
My husband has an obsession
in buying a house, for that’s the only way
we can install a high suction range-hood,
which can keep us from tearing up
when he cooks Kung Pao chicken,
chili fried cabbage, and spicy hot pot.
I also dream of a house of our own,
with a small yard where I can plant
some tomatoes, cucumbers, green onions
several bamboos and a cauliflower.
I want the branches and leaves
to bind us firmly to the land,
and the roots run deep to the foundation.
After a WeChat Quarrel with Mom
I keep telling myself not to be like my mom
when I’m in my 60s or older.
She refuses to use bank card, fearing her money
be eaten up by the ATM. She holds a paper bankbook
to deposit or withdraw, hides it
above the celling of her kitchen, like people
buried gold in the yard in Qing Dynasty.
She almost cried and called the Chinese embassy
when I didn’t hear her phone call in a cinema on Friday night.
I told my friend this is the evil consequence
of One Child Policy. Mom always worried
I would be in car accidents, shootings,
and now the COVID-19, the burnings, riots,
the “crash down” of the Capitalist system.
I don’t want Mom to know about things in my life,
because she would stay up all night, coming up with
some unrealistic suggestions, silly, outdated,
annoying. She said I should cherish her naggings,
for only a living mom can speak. I know
she’s still under the shadow
of Grandma’s death 8 years ago.
Mom’s a pessimist, even when I was a small kid.
I was still attached to her back then,
believing in her almighty omniscience.
She said one day I would fly far and high,
get married, leave her behind as I grew up.
I swore I would never do it.
You will, and you’ll forget your promise.
No, I bet I won’t forget it!
And apparently I win, now I still remember it,
on the other side of the Pacific Ocean,
with a husband, two sons
both born in the United States.
