Box Man

A Wor(l)d of Many Wor(l)ds

Their words cut through my dictionary like a

knife. Slowly I learned the words related to

“decoloniality,” which they had also learned

recently in class. I didn’t understand the joke

of the Dutchman who said “Sorry, we also want

a World of Many Worlds.” My world was cut apart

again. I wondered if theirs was cut apart at all.

White on White (1918) (after Mika Tajima)

Living as if life itself is white on white,

or perhaps white beneath – a backdrop

where the sleeping infant forgets games,

and the home’s cat treats him

as a sturdy climbing frame.

Commuting between office and home,

life resembles an abstract painting.

Stepping into a gender-neutral restroom

does not equate to true neutrality;

the life I anticipated does not exist in reality.

My body, racialized and flattened,

as if being stared at in a mirror forever,

thin as a road-flattened bird.

Yellow isn’t as eye-catching as supposed;

more often, it’s an afternoon or a seltzer.

Flat Asian features,

a testament to universality, adaptability,

and economic efficiency.

When does an ordinary whiteboard capture attention?

When the white boss contemplates

its acoustic isolation as he masturbates in the office,

considering its ability to rotate along the horizontal axis

like in a colossal game:

he can watch the outside without being seen.

When the artist slashes it open,

does the Balenciaga ad prompt tonight’s date

to buy a bag? The wandering Chinese painter –

whose portrait will he paint next,

or will he sketch another Van Gogh?

Besides when moving becomes inevitable,

who cares if IKEA furniture also besieges us,

seeming suspicious, or is it

like a child’s game of hide and seek?

Transit

On my first night back in Holland,

the fresh air felt chilly, revolting,

as if it had been scrubbed with bleach.

My bitterness, choked by heat haze,

inhaled in my hometown, tied again

in dead knots on the idle flight, even harder

to expel. I wanted to write light

poems, but they always seemed

weighty.

Betrayal of Whiteness (after Moby-Dick)

Today my name is Betrayal.

So pondered the captain’s first harpooner.

The captain was a haunted soul,

yearning to be consumed by a spectral whale

on this vast canvas of snow. A pursuit, a torment.

Seek me, please. This ivory silence.

I see my shipmate, cloaked in the pallor of that same

persistent whiteness, gripping the helm

to chase. Rush, rush –

his eyes are absent. Beneath his hat, staring blankly.

Cut Piece (1964)

The Vanishing Point (after Hieu Minh Nguyen)

Where is my orgasm? / i ask my chinese lover / silence answers / words fail to reach / in this world without sound / or we’re dizzy / from high blood sugar / we ate too many desserts / too real & unreal / c a n i f e e l y o u? / between us / a hard white mirror / I already know or not yet / but how do we surrender? / tell me / it’s not a sign of death’s coming / or its shadow passed / we exist / as two chameleons / with outlines dissolving / toeless, noseless, mouthless / unable to pass through / no tears at this world’s brink / only the stark white of a movie screen / is there also a boundless white desert there? / our bodies’ direction / & eyes’ gaze / forced into sameness / what lies at the end? / home / or a place that never was? / yet our sights & forms / vanish there / contract there / shiver there / where? / elsewhere / even parallel lines / might meet there / where? / blam / listen carefully / blam zhoom / gunshots ring out there / our arms still stretch / towards there / an unknown starry sky / covered with polka dots / as if asking / where are you from?

Common Cup

When I marinated myself in alcohol,

I drafted a missing person notice for myself.

Swollen, I turned into a translucent membrane, invisible to all.

And I wouldn’t tell you –

When I showered in the public water fountain,

When the blue eyeshadow of revelry was washed away,

My body, though swollen, was like a single-celled organism,

Turning the city’s liquids into stories of intoxication,

And no one could tell –

When the sewer’s grease dissolved in my body,

When the howls of stray dogs became imitations of my speech.

They dubbed me a sprite in shallow, stagnant waters.

Who says sprites can’t be as wicked as we?

Who? Who are they?

Clumps of suffocating, white fat bow to me in reverence.

Hmm, their flesh lacks chewiness.

I spray, I spit, I urinate.

A few policemen guard all my transgressions,

I merge with the metal and vinyl around me.

Church bells toll,

Rust infects the entire city.

Crystal Ball

My hometown, like

another world preserved

in a crystal ball, with

the glittery snow falling

every day.

Upside down, turn my

intestines around. Hate

& love slowly intertwined,

drift, in the unnamed toxic

viscous liquid, that my mum

used to warn me again and

again: not to swallow

if I broke it.

Drunken Pigs

In picking a nickname for the beloved one, I’ve chosen

this pig, a creature of paradox and strife, over the dog

or cat. I wonder if they are foolish or wise, fornicating

with flowers in wild abandon, gambling with feces, that

ferments until it becomes spirits, drunken into slumber -

sleeping is also their job, in order to grow meat for the

inevitable end. The moment of slaughter awaits. No one

will sympathize with their fate, though they show similar

cuteness to those. In dreams, do they claim the joy denied

by day, finding solace in the shadows they lay? They sleep

soundly within the scent of pork wafting from chimneys

and windows, plump and radiating unexpected elegance.

Do they, too, feel the pangs of loneliness, the weight of

despair? Are they hungry, or weary?

Notes

1. “Common Cup” reflects on the 19th-century public health issues and social reform efforts in Britain, focusing on the challenges of waterborne diseases like cholera and typhoid caused by poor sanitation. It highlights the construction of public water fountains as a key response, aimed at providing clean drinking water and reducing alcohol consumption, amidst the backdrop of the temperance movement. These efforts were complicated by the era’s class, race, and gender dynamics, often carrying paternalistic undertones and reinforcing social hierarchies. Additionally, the poem indirectly refers to the segregation of public water fountains in the US, symbolizing racial discrimination and inequality during the Jim Crow era.

2. “Drunken Pigs” centers on the 19th-century commerce involving Chinese indentured laborers, derogatorily referred to as “pigs,” alongside the opium trade. During this era, opium was aggressively imported into China by the British, serving not only as a traded commodity but also as a tool for subjugation by fostering addiction among the labor force.