When Asked Where I’m (Really) From

“To be Asian in America is to be quizzed, constantly, about your ethnicity. What are you? Where are you from? No, but where are your parents from?”
— Jeff Guo, The Washington Post

Between two halves
          of a canyon’s split lip,

                    whose namesake the streets sing—
          all that is holy

after opening day
          of hunting season: Remington,

                    Winchester, Pistol
          Drive. Full of sandstone

’n gunpowder.
          No-stoplight town

                    always taking,
          two kids, at least, each year:

pulled under by river snag,
          by huffing Krylon Gold,

                    accident of gorge’s curve
          or gunshot. If asked,

I’ll tell you:
          not where I’m from

                    but where I was made: wanting
          nothing but escape,

the only girl who knew
          how to play—called to accompany

                    wherever there was need.
          Bye, Bye

Birdie auditions, weddings
          & Lutheran ladies’ Christmas teas,

                    I was the girl who could
          sight-read a melody

but always had trouble
          keeping time, whose door

                    a mother’d come knocking on
          in the middle of the night,

asking for a song.

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