My grandma hates it when I wear black,
because that’s not what good Chinese girls do
to their ancestors or to the good Chinese boys
who take you home to family dinner,
finishing your whole bowl of rice, not a grain remaining,
because this is how ancient love matches
happened: not in the boardroom or bedroom
or over DM, asking a cute guy
to grab a seasonal latte and lox
when you meant to say let’s get a gin
and tonic or just get straight to the point,
but of course, Grandma’s having none of that,
and maybe she’s right—the dinner table is
the best place to meet your soulmate,
because relationships are the back and forth
of deciding on takeout: Peking Duck,
Moo Shu Pork, Crab Rangoon, Hot and Sour Soup,
or five greasy slices of sausage for you,
black olives and pepperoni for me,
champagne and hot dogs, toasting to loving
the same James Bond and sci-fi movies,
and oh, what more could you want out of a soulmate?
And, Grandma hates it when I wear black,
because Grandpa buys fresh oranges
every week to honor dead ancestors,
and if Mulan’s grandma believed in jade
beads around her elegant neck for luck,
mine believes in red and pink ensembles,
and no, it’s not oversexed—it’s optimism,
the way she remembers me as a little girl
baking cookies in the shapes of camels,
wearing my red plaid headband and barrettes,
a sweater with a burger logo,
because I was moving to America,
and she’d stop smiling after that move,
and now, I’ve got a thing for guys who like llamas,
and Grandma doesn’t care for runway
fashion or girls, girls, girls walking down
the street in tight, black leather dresses
or leopard mini-skirts, studded t-shirts,
because even if I’m her American potato,
I’ve got to keep my Chinese luck.
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