For Filipina/x Americans Who See Themselves Thru Anthony Bourdain

The thousand pieces of a broken plate
cannot come together with Elmer’s.
Any Uncle Sam in an Aloha button-up shirt
with rolled-up sleeves to deal with humidity
and a spoon and fork as hands
can call us generous. Name us resilient.
Jolly their ways to our pigs.
Play exotic Jingle Bells
and other easy adjectives for Christmastime.

We chew white karaoke, cover band their spit
on our tongues, swallow English pop songs
before we hear them explain the fat of our bar scenes.
All these cameras they wield apprehend our dreams,
color them unknown, military base our women,
decorate our journalists in sisig.

Why drum the remote to find home.
Why not drive the knife into the accent
they baked for you.
Why not julienne the blessing with your bare hands.
You must fight to be whole, awan ti apple pie.

The Islands

“When we first arrived, the ocean was a scene from a movie...”

On or about July 10, 20151

“You are plowing through heartbreak, a cigarette between your fingers, the radio’s bass beating into your sternum”

[a foreign woman]

“in school a suburban blonde / searches my complexion for life ”