the idea of having a son as your first
to hold empty kingly positions is old but not dead
i look at photos of myself, a baby,
wonder why that wretched creature failed to win the birth lottery.
i might not have a fortune cookie
nestled in my bag
ready to crack open with my untold future
a few crumbs scattered along table edge
but i know sure as hell
i’ll die an artist disowned by my own people.
i am not different from others like me
all i know is that the red on our flags goes in different places
but still we are all the same
blood buried alive in orange chicken and broccoli beef
imagination chokes what we know
the rain is so heavy i can wade in it
i do not cry during moments of hardship
i cry when the tears come to life.
they slide down my face like drapery
lanterns falling from lines over chinatown.
somehow crying reminds me of home