Dear 光 (aka I hope you have time for this poem)--
it’s been a while since you’ve written a poem
or arranged the sonnet, with arranging cut up lines on your living room floor.
it’s been a while since you’ve wandered through 日本町 in your flip flops you’ve worn
since high school graduation. tell dad it was worth the $18.
it’s been a while since you’ve worn a novel Halloween costume
even though you bought three Pokemon onesies last year and decided they were too hot.
it’s been a while since you read tarot cards, letting the king
of swords slip out while sloppily shuffling. (remember when you’d leave out a silver
mug for the goddess Artemis because you always wanted to be a virgin with a big big
bow and you are only half of that
it’s been a while since you texted your brother (because instagram likes don’t count):
Here’s my podcast. Pls share with your friends. Pls share my pictures like how mom
used to make us share those jarred belgian chocolate truffles from Costco.
it’s been a while since you’ve bought new underwear,
or worn a headband, or used a full-size sanitary pad, or touched
something violently pink and fluffy. but--
tonight you read a poem to your partner. this morning you introduced a multigenre project
to 38 undergraduates with no questions asked. and--
last night you popped pills past your lips instead of putting a blade to your wrist,
and slept like you weren’t afraid of dreams.
why yes, thank you for noticing
my name, sharp light
on your soft tongue
peppered with all
the jeweled ikura
brine-pickled embers
just waiting to pop.
you roll my name
in a bamboo makisu,
squeeze the excess
into your egg for that
umami Japanese flair.
how pretty, how unique, how
cool as a kokeshi expression
inked on moth winged wood,
kimonos stamped with sakuras
blushing brighter than kamaboko.
you don’t see the brown in me,
the lumpia-crunching, I-don’t-eat-out-
of-pots-so-I-don’t-get-pregnant-me.
so you don’t ask anak, how are your aunties
in Ilocos? you don’t know about the math facts
homework crumpled beneath my pillow
the night before my first grade math
test. you don’t know why we don’t
put our purses on our ground, you
don’t understand the hawaiian salt
and garlic hidden beneath my bed.
you don’t know why you don’t know
my name. my skin. the depth of brown
in my eyes, my blood some ungodly
percentage of shoyu.
beyond the dusting of mochiko flour,
the sweet earth of an beans, crackling
that could be my nori or my hair, I am
especially that sprinkle of diversity on your pie
chart, that bamboo mat and ceiling,
waterproof, sleek, green, and unbearably
light.
introducing my girl band, wet sidewalk
we drink mogu mogu with extra nata de coco
out of mushroom cups, headbang until our air
pods clatter onto the scratched laminate floor.
we sing songs about why the sidewalk is wet.
our playlist: someone dropped their coconut sorbet.
someone told me a lie and now the sky is falling
out of my eyes. a frog hopped across searching
for some other frog to amplexus. someone spit.
my brother threw a snowball and missed. we miss
our deceased dog. the hose is leaking. the clouds
wouldn’t stop pouting. ballpoint pen explosion.
we cry if we drop our miki noodle soup. we cry
because the snakeskin ripped and now the cat
is pawing it around. we cry because children
are full of bullets instead of pichi-pichi or
malasadas. we cry for the lifespan of dragonflies.
we collaborate, too. featuring: the sound of the newest
iphone dropping onto our ex-partner’s driveway. the wind
(wednesday afternoon without trees). my pregnant
mother angrily shouting for dinuguan, circa 1996.
a wishbone breaking unevenly. the microwave screaming
to the world that leftover pancit is ready. breaking mirror.
we are unapologetic. we don’t shave, we don’t slave
for nobody. unless, now, hear us good and clear:
there is free, all you can eat halo-halo. with extra ube.
Hikari Leilani Miya is an LGBTQ Japanese-Filipina American who graduated from Cornell University in 2019 with a BA in English, and from University of San Francisco with an MFA in Creative Writing. She is in Florida State University's PhD program in creative writing and is an instructor for undergraduates. She currently lives in Tallahassee with her snakes and disabled cat.
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