I wake in the waves
of a Taiwan Strait pouring
salt into my cheeks.
My eyes tearing

off into the moonlight.
Every night I dream of being
washed away in a kitchen
sink. Rinsed from

the mouths of my family.
Father only tells stories
when I ask him. Where were you
stationed in the mountains? Did you dream

of America or survival? Which
kept you alive? Which almost
killed you? Yesterday
I tucked Yé yé into bed.

As I laid him down straightened
his legs he whispered
the last words he could
remember in English

Take it easy.
So I drew the sheet
over his body
stopping at his neck. For now

I still make jokes
about the Chinese
restaurants like our family’s
last one on Town Street. I’ll tell

my white friends
there are only two requirements
to open your own. An adjective
& a noun: Golden Chopsticks,

Elegant Dragon,
Lucky Star.
Maybe if they understand
our names then they’ll stop

shouting Ching Chong
when I drag the duck sauce
smell to school. The last time
I was in New York

someone’s son asked
how tall I am.
He needed to know
whether I would fit in

side his apartment or be
in the way of their fire escape.
If I have a son
with his mother’s eyes

then will there still be room
for me under his tongue?
Will he want to eat
bitter squash just because

it’s what daddy did?
I make myself small
on subways & elevators
lay my life out

in the corner nestle under
the paw of a tiger. My mother
clawed sheets of skin off
my back so I could be striped

like the other kids.
So my vertebrae
could grieve in the open.
My Mongolian spot refuses to

fade. I guess some of us will
always look like abused children.
In school I learned trauma
will stall a person’s development.

In school I learned some of us
will always look like abused children.