Dorothy Chan
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Dear Lady, Stop Gifting Me Lip Balms and Hand Cream
“I don’t mean to pry, but have you ever been
on a date?” my brother’s girlfriend asks me
but now I’ve lost it, because I know what
she really means is “I’ve never heard you
it’s complicated, and I should correct that
I’ve never talked about boys or girls
what I do in my spare time, and my sexuality’s
not yours to dissect, not yours to straighten up
ride a rocketship, orgasm a rocketship
if that’ll shup you up and fly you out of here,
and hand creams galore she gifted me
for Christmas, but no eyeshadows or blushes
fifty lip balms and one hundred hand creams
to survive, and how dare I even think about
our hands, put on a sloppy outfit,
because all the nice things and the nice boys
and I sip on pear juice to fill the hole
in my throat as more dishes come,
my brother has eating the kimchi
pancakes that I ordered as they continue
matter, I think, when we have all this delicious
food in front of us, the bulgogi and galbi
you’re proximity to blood doesn’t make
you family, and I don’t answer, keep sipping
over Korean food, and I was excited
for spicy rice cakes in my Dolsot Bibimbap,
talk about boys, so do you like girls?”
I’m twenty-one in Ithaca, so of course
with her, and what I want to say to her face
right now, is Lady, it’s none of your business
and guess what? Not all of us want to marry
engineers. But I’ll gladly build a rocketship,
and I think back to the Sephora bags filled
with lip balm after lip balm after lip balm
or lipsticks, because you know, a girl
with a complicated sexuality only needs
going glamorous or painting my nails—
nope, girls like me only need to moisturize
are reserved for the 100% straight girls
of the world, so why am I even trying,
and the nerve she has eating the kimchi
pancakes that I ordered, and the nerve
to pry, “So when was your last date? Who
was he?” And why in the world does it even
and stews, and just because you’re blood
doesn’t mean your family and just because
on pear juice, stuffing my red lipsticked face
with rice cakes, and oh, dinner is served.
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Triple Sonnet for Naughtiness
All I want is a cheerleading outfit,
because my best friend Yena’s doing Texas
for the weekend, and I should hop on a plane,
meet her in Austin, and go RAH RAH RAH
washing a car, suds all over my top, bra
spilling out in a shade of Royal Blue,
then eating a burger medium rare and fries
seasoned with Old Bay, red lips munching
like there’s no tomorrow. And I love girls’ lips,
and I love girls’ trips, and I love the way
all my friends are a little naughty, a little
raunchy—a little let’s film a commercial
in front of a grill, and barbeque, honey—
forks piercing thick wieners and bratwursts,
and eat your sauerkraut, dear, grind on me
in your short shorts, and let’s take out the hose
and judge a bunch of shirtless men frolicking
in the kiddy pool, and did I ever tell you about
my dreams where pool floats shaped like whales
and dolphins chase me, and I can’t stop running
until they turn into snakes, and then rubber
serpents blowing away like balloons coming out
of a clown’s ass. And this backyard party’s great
and all, but where’s the talking dog telling us how
to bake beans, reminding me of two o’clock
mornings when I’m wide awake and still tipsy,
putting eggs and bacon and mushrooms and
tomatoes into a pan—give me a full English
breakfast, soak up the whiskey, and I wonder:
Is everything really that much bigger in Texas?
Or am I just dreaming of that movie scene
when the convertible rides off into the sunset—
into the clouds, as Yena and I do Austin
wearing cheerleader outfits, because why not,
why not make every day your own personal
playground—your own playpen, your own penthouse
filled with champagne to pour all over my body,
pour it now, sweetie, and I’m reminded of Debbie
Does Dallas, that ’70s porno flick starring
Bambi Woods, and the girls in the film wash cars
in hopes of going to Dallas for tryouts and Bambi,
Bambi, Bambi, Bambi, now that’s a beautiful name.
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Recipe for Teen Dreams
Because I’m approaching thirty, I can finally star
in a teen drama on primetime TV, and give me that
longing look and designer wardrobe and that can-do
attitude of a heartthrob who doesn’t belong in such
a small town, and Dear Casting, let me play this useless
main character, your designated hero, the central romantic
plot, because can that finally be an Asian girl’s job?
But my storyline and love life are never useless,
and I’m telling you: I was born for top billing,
also known as your teen-idol-hottie-protagonist
who gets into an affair with the sexy teacher
in episode one, but by episode seven, everything
goes back to normal, like how in children’s books,
our protagonists enter the wardrobe or the tollbooth
or the map or the treasure chest and years and years
and years go by in this alternate timeline, whereas back
in real life, only minutes have passed, and I think
about my own love life, and how I’ve got the taste
for older men: silver foxes who buy me cocktails
and shower me with dinners, and let’s watch classic
cinema together, and that’s the typical young and stupid
mistake to make, how years ago, I thought I’d just call it
a day and marry a rich stud of a man of salt-and-pepper
hair, but those only exist in fairytales, but what if I’m trapped
in all of this fantasy that turns itself on its head,
the way some men want to pay for ten more minutes
of a young Asian woman’s time, and you bet your ass,
if I was on a teen drama, I’d play the central character
who starts an affair with the hot teacher, and in real life,
these men will never understand me, because they’re only
as good as the food on the table lasts, and they don’t
get why I need to keep a little Hong Kong in me:
and growing up, I’d eat chicken wings,
Cantonese style in front of the television:
Sauté your chicken wings with two tablespoons
of oil until golden. Add in ginger, spring onion,
and parsley, and fry for a little. Add in your sauce:
half a teaspoon of sugar, a pinch pepper, a dash
of sesame oil, half a tablespoon of wine, half
a tablespoon of light soy, half a cup of water,
half a teaspoon of chicken powder,
and add in that sauce. Then arrange your wings
in the wok, cover and boil. Bake over low heat
for five minutes. Add in oyster sauce, then stir
and bake for just a little. Add in corn flour mix
with water for thickening. Dish up. Discard
your ginger, spring onion, and parsley.
Serve and enjoy. Watch your primetime soap.
And I want to star in a teen drama because I can
be forever young and stupid with no consequences,
and isn’t that the dream—give me today and tomorrow
and the fountain of youth at the end of the day when I leave
my silver fox, eat dinner alone, and onto episode seven,
back to normal teenage life of boys and girls and bowling
and milkshakes and cars and what even happens on
the season finale—don’t leave me on a cliffhanger, baby.
__________
Dorothy Chan is the author of Chinese Girl Strikes Back (Spork Press, forthcoming 2020), Revenge of the Asian Woman (Diode Editions, March 2019), Attack of the Fifty-Foot Centerfold (Spork Press, 2018), and the chapbook Chinatown Sonnets (New Delta Review, 2017). She is a 2019 recipient of the Philip Freund Prize in Creative Writing from Cornell University, a 2014 finalist for the Ruth Lilly and Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Poetry Fellowship, and her work has appeared or is forthcoming in POETRY, The American Poetry Review, Academy of American Poets, The Cincinnati Review, Quarterly West, The Offing, and elsewhere. Chan is an Assistant Professor of English at the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire and Poetry Editor of Hobart. Visit her website at dorothypoetry.com
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Posted in Boudin 2020, Poetry and tagged in #boudin, #dorothychan, #mcneesereview, Poetry