The way the letter “r” rumbles
from the cavern of his throat
through the top of his teeth, gently,
a passing freight train or a faraway
thunderstorm. The alchemy
of his language: eavesdropped
becomes ear dropped and flirting
becomes floating. The way he says
my mother’s name, soft “th” sculpted solid,
syllables ringing clear like notes
from a gamelan. The way I train my tongue
to imitate his, words clumsy and labored
in my impostor mouth. The way the plumber
shakes my father’s hand and says, I’ll call you
Bill instead. The way my teachers
refuse his gaze as they ask me
to translate his English into my own.
The way he used to rub my back
on sleepless nights, his hands cracked
into tectonic plates. The same hands
that sold churros from a cart on the boardwalk.
Scrubbed grime out of a movie star’s
kitchen sink. Loaded boxes of frozen food
into an eighteen-wheeler truck by moonlight.
The same hands that never learned how to use
chopsticks. The way he has to ask for a fork
when we go to our favorite noodle house.
The way the waiter says, How spicy
do you want your food? and my father replies,
Make me cry. The way my father does not speak
while he eats, bent over the bowl
in reverence. The way he taught me
that long noodles signify
a long life, and to cut them
is bad luck. So we slurp them up
so loudly, the whole room
stops to look.
***
Ally Ang is a gaysian poet based in Seattle whose work has been published in Nepantla: An Anthology Dedicated to Queer Poets of Color, The Margins, The Journal, and elsewhere. Ally is the author of the chapbook Monstrosity (Damaged Goods Press 2016) and co-editor of an anthology of Southeast Asian art and writing titled All the Oils: On Friendship, Sex, and Other Warmths (Ginger Bug Press 2021). Their work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Bettering American Poetry.
Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons
