Twigi
Not every mulatto is created
equal. Some get heckled
on subway cars, lynched or celebrated
in tickertape parades. My mother can’t speak
a lick of Korean and doesn’t
give a damn, never says mulatto
but calls both of us mutts,
though I can’t pass for shit but black:
ask the audience as I stroll in
late. We could use a Hines Ward
to show us the way — tell the boys
shouting twigi on the subway
all of us are animals, are hybrid
of body, of place. Mornings
I dream of kinked hair and cry.
My mother’s mother forgets
who we are, speaks Korean over
our heads, lost in language.
My mother only nods,
exhausted. I know few words,
my tongue full of friction. Say
omma, I say, raise us
back into memory,
into word, into place. Once
a woman pressed into the pink
nailbeds of my fingers,
told me she could see
my blood. My mother
is mistaken for Hawaiian,
for Indian, for everything
but what she is. When I tell her
I’ll have no children,
she says then I guess we’ll be
the only two left. Somewhere
we are understood. My mother
opens her mouth.
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