Asian girls have that thing going on,
is what the Internet search of Yellow Fever
tells me, but no surprises there,
because have you looked into our eyes,
a feline power magnified by a million,
as you think about tales of the Orient,
but oh, shut up about the spices,
the dumplings, the temples, oh shut up,
white boy who wants a lady on the streets
but a freak in the bedroom,
and I’ll tell you something: I’m a freak everywhere
from elevators to family gatherings,
and it’s a lot of fun—kawaii porn, or that fantasy
of an innocent face, oh, but that body,
the way it moves, and it’s a mystique
or the X-factor, or you can’t read
what’s in my black eyes like a shield,
and I’ll stop talking in superhero terms,
because you know, my parents are the real
superheroes, coming to this country,
giving up a penthouse in Hong Kong
and a Mercedes and a pay raise
and a million other offers one can’t refuse,
and those noodle stands and four curry
fish balls on a stick at midnight—
and you can’t read what’s in my black eyes
like a shield, because that’s how I was raised
for centuries and centuries and centuries,
and you can’t beat history and culture—
oh, white boy, I know you can look at me
for days, and I know you want to touch me
for days, my smooth skin enhanced by Korean
beauty products and plain and simple genetics,
the way my mother warns me not to blow dry
my hair too much, rusting it, making it
lose its black shine, and I must wear it black,
never dyed, and white boy, stop trying
to conquer me, and you know what,
if you love those dumplings so much,
I’d like to see you eat a durian whole,
or what about some fish heads and frog legs,
and I’m thinking—now that’s a cute date.
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