If I played roller derby, my name would be Yellow Fever,
knocking out all those white boys from college
who used to whisper sweet nothings to me
in Mandarin, trying to seduce through the pure poetry
of simplified Chinese on hand-delivered letters,
and come on, this is the 21st century,
and I’m not here to make friends or be your 4th grade pen pal
just because you’re lonely after watching tentacle porn
for the first time, and you don’t understand real art:
how to sit during tea ceremonies or where to watch
the best Chinese opera, and how buying a kimono
at EPCOT doesn’t qualify for a pass
to Tokyo Fashion Week, and you expect praise, idolatry,
applause from the entire Chinese population
for your summers in Shanghai selling real estate,
working for Daddy, and oh, white boy, how you think every form
of Asian food is a dumpling, because they’re all
so “cute and small,” just like your type of girl
with dark hair and red lips that you want to display as trophies,
as “Gotta Catch ‘Em All” Japanese collectibles,
as vintage dolls from the mainland,
and they’re all interchangeable, and all of this is too good for you,
so don’t you dare tell me how to pronounce “nigiri”
when you can’t even chug sake like a CEO
or tell me where to get the best Hong Kong buffet
when you can’t stomach red bean and oyster sauce
and don’t know the difference between teas
and I don’t have time to help you pick out a soy sauce,
so just accept the fact that I look great in gold short shorts
and will never take you back to my homeland.
Leave a Reply