Ni Hao Isn’t the Way to My Vagina
met a stranger. on the street. he said, "you good?"
well, he actually said "ni hao?" which we all know is "hello"
but (he didn't know) really means "you good." asked it anyway, "you good...
in bed?" he told me, "I love your country" which we all know is his
try to love my cunt because (he doesn't know) my country
is his country; he is just, in all terms, a dick
pic in my inbox.
in our country, there's romcoms, pick up lines,
swipe right swipe left & for a time i thought i was in
on the joke. but i'm the butt. my "did heaven lose its angel"
is "me love you long time," my "God sent you"
is [racist noises], like i'm gonna choose a man based on how big
an asshole he is, how long, how extreme his fingers
can elongate his eyes—
yet i welcome those "knee hows!"
i imagine myself yodeling on the corner,
Rosetta Stoning my way to a first date. trying out
ethnicities until i find a mate who tolerates me
at my worst—
& my worst is sharp
-ening Korean chopsticks to shank a knee
how yahoo in the groin. my worst is
eviscerating this world-traveled woke guy
who only suggests Asian restaurants on dates
with my favorite .38
ball point pen.
the culmination, apex, climax of this?
you had me at hello
This poem previously appeared in Porter House Review.