Poem – Girl’s Room

Girl’s Room
            For George Oppen

A stranger peeked in
Plath’s and Dickinson’s windows
late at night, and thought, “Man,
these are lassie rooms,” and laughed

alone.  Yes, a woman’s room
is a girlie room,
and I hope men know that

the intelligent prostitute
will excite a man, a whore
not a girl reaching
for the headboard for balance,
while a boy lies beneath, laughing.

-Chang

Poem – The Living Room

The Living Room
	After a conversation with Barbara Hale

All my life
I’ve cleaned my house at night
when the cars have stopped running
and the crickets begin singing

Under the white bulb in the living room—
vacuuming cookie crumbs from the carpet and
dusting the dead television,
pressing feathers on broken speakers.
They’re not blown out; just faulty wiring.

Watching the red lips of the local anchorwoman
I’ve learned to read her quiet words.
Flat-cheeked, her round eyes
Are endlessly searching.
Eye to lips when I look up from TV dinners,
Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes,
we never make eye contact.

Gentle with the paintings
and pictures on the walls;
they hang with glass faces—
short nails in thin asbestos—
tempting gravity always:

Johnny—as a one-year-old baby—has red hair
no one in the family has.
He also has a rare smile and
tiny teeth that never knew cavities.
They fed him broccoli and Shanghai bok choy.
I didn’t know him.
He was older and died young for his time:
42.	Heart attack.
“He was a fit 42,” I remember someone saying.

His legacy lives in this first house he bought
and didn’t have the heart to sell
even when he finally moved
to his estate in the hills.

I never liked that one.
The ceilings are too high, and
the maids and butler and cook hear everything.
Even when they were in their quarters,
I felt their ears listening
as grandmother told me she loved me only,
while watching me put the bears and dolls
back to their places on the shelves.

This first house is easier to keep:
three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen
and the living room.

The fireplace isn’t big
but watches the room and breathes warmth
to the occupants.

The master bedroom is the only room
big enough to fit a king-sized bed,
but most nights,
the three cushions of the living room’s couch hold me,
and loose change now and then.

The hardwood floor has been replaced once
when grandmother left the kitchen sink running
and locked herself out of the house.
There was little damage.
Johnny just wanted consistency.

The house is still a bit cold
from the years when no one,
lived in it.

-Chang

Poem – The door knob without a door

The door knob without a door

The depression sinks in
Days without purpose
The hands reach but end in fists
No entry means nothing
to the owner of the hand

It’s the knob that suffers
from the lack of responsibility,
and companionship

So he will lay hopeless
The truth is we live for the use and abuse
Without it we feel lonely and unwanted
It is only when we receive it that we appreciate the purity

But it is too late

-Howell

Poem – Fortune Cookies

Fortune Cookies

My father speaks
before the family at the dinner table.
     [My mother provides the translations.]

Upon birth
I cried, coming out headfirst.
“Happy days are just over the mountaintop.
          The struggle has ended.”

She brings countless plates;
     frisbees with food for my American friends.
He eyes them and grins.
(Chew.  Don’t choke.
          Moderation is key.)

His face is flushed; blushing
     from the cognac.
A request.
Do we have any rice wine?
He smiles.
          “Soon, a lifelong friend shall be made.”

Katie wants a platinum ring with diamonds,
 not gold bars and a beheaded chicken.
“You have a strong desire.
          But wait, family interests come first.”

Je t’aime, mais j’adore mon père.
Oui, je comprend...
 mais, voulez-vous coucher avec moi?
It’s a romance language.
          (Fuck you!)  Aix meih!

In the foothills,
     the sun shines on the priest.
I do.
“Faulty confessions—
          are next to innocence.”
Yie mv hiuv.

During the holidays,
     our waists become thicker,
          the air becomes thinner.
“Hire a blonde secretary,” he says.

We eat Vietnamese take-out,
     splattering oyster sauce over the contracts.
She wears glossy lipstick,
          on her neck, a crucifix.

Katie sponges my father’s back
and lights sandalwood incense at night,
     burning my nasal cavity.
He whispers, “Your wisest counselor is you.”

Mother’s sobbing
     sounds like laughter
          when she forgets a word.
Katie holds her hand,
they stare through the silent crowd across the room:
          an uninvited stranger
                                            needs to be fed.


-Saechao