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.