We leave the head on, bones to
pick out; eating can be a chore, so
many utensils so we go without
fingers like kung-fu
(but we’re not that kind of Asian) scoop
grey-green mongo beans, bitter melon,
too much garlic, onions in everything, rice
makes one meal last for three. Friends
hate the smell
shrimp paste, bright
fuchsia, fishy, they always take too damn
much like that scene in Joy Luck Club but
we’re not that kind of Asian. We’re lesser
so we boast and brag it, every European
spiked our genes
but how they recoil,
the descendants come to try out the exotic,
cursed and spit out. They expect Chinese.