Poetry Samples

Living in the Middle

A knife tears a line between my two sides,

half of one thing and half of another.

Living in the middle where the whole me hides.

The black of my hair bleeds into my eyes,

my freckled veneer a passable cover.

A knife tears a line between my two sides.

Forks or chopsticks, neither denied,

Bleached hands smear the rice that shudders

from living in the middle where the whole me hides.

Gashed and gashed, the hands without sight—

both yours and mine—hack and scuffle

A knife tears a line between my two sides.

Crowds heft up the part that is White,

claw the Asian eyes of the Other.

Living in the middle where the whole me hides.

The bigger half claims that the smaller one lies,

the half that demands the skin of my mother,

living in the middle where the whole me hides,

a knife tears a line between my two sides.

Grandma’s Grocery List For Good Luck Stew

  1. Carrots (2) 

I don’t need your help with this one, Grandma.

I know which store and which aisle.

  1. Kobu, or kelp; buy it canned

The Asian Market carries this.

Right, Grandma?

  1. Gobo, or burdock root

What does it look like?

How will I know when I’ve found it?

  1. Bamboo shoots

I think I can buy these at the regular grocery store. 

At least the canned ones. 

Do they have to be fresh, Grandma?

  1. Canned fuki 

If I ask for fuki at the Asian market, 

will they know what it is? 

  1. Yama emo 

This is a potato, or yam. I think.

  1. Water lily root 

I couldn’t read your handwriting here, Grandma. 

I hope this is right.

  1. Chicken 

Sigh of relief. 

Will you go shopping with me, Grandma?

The ingredients are difficult 

for a white-Japanese girl.

But I need the good luck stew.

I need the good luck.

The Soul Box

The smoke of a soul

contained in a box.

Guarded by walls,

protecting its dross

of wood unmooring

pungent and crumbling,

and scorching water

ablaze with daring

The box opens,

the soul flies.

Spreads as vapor

past the dark between stars. 

No longer safe.

No longer small.

What My Grandmother Might Have Said

my body never breathed

inside rice paper walls

and yet You accuse japanese soil 

of dirtying my heart

is that why You call me enemy

You say almond eyes

and yellow skin

but age will whiten

my hair like a woman

with a crucifix 

is that enough to hide me

bring Your tools 

dig my food out of the earth

take my radio and my shovel

bathe Yourself in the red of my blood

will i be one of You then

or my crops could decay

allowed to rot in the ground 

away from Your grubby hands

You who call me enemy

can You see i am loyal and still resent what You’ve done

Son, you have my eyes 

I named you Michael

no one will believe 

you belong to this country 

I repressed the language of your grandparents 

I amputated your accent 

I dressed you like a westerner

I cannot shield you

run home! eat all the rice in the house 

soon the crops will perish 

filling the earth’s belly 

instead of yours 

You who call me enemy—

do You despise my gohan— 

do You rage at my plentiful harvest—

does my sunday kimono hurt You— 

is it that my grandparents 

came from the country 

that killed Your soldiers 

didn’t Your grandparents come from somewhere too