Postcards from Li-Young Lee’s Desk

by Rathanak Michael Keo

Out of all the places I could be to miss you,
why here?

1. “Dreaming of Hair”
“wish you were here” marinates itself
In moonlight and stars.
all that’s left to do is dream.

and even in sleep
I am provoked to love you,
that beautiful black hair of yours,
that sprouts itself out like wings, or lounge like interstate highways
on lazy days
begging for conversation about tomorrow.

Yesterday I was at a dance,
In your absence
Persimmons were still on every table(besides hiding in your purse)  
sugarcoating the throat of every Asian/American/Woman  
until laughter gave way to flares, lighting the path for

Asian/American/Boys like me that couldn’t resist wading  
Into the arms of their sisters.

When I got back home
I couldn’t help but think of you, your black hair;
the holes of your ceiling;
how you laugh as your dreams caught itself in my mouth—
on the luxury of that tiny twin sized bed our bodies sprawled across
(too small to ever be considered comfortable for our generation),

or how the only thing I could do during those nights
was to tell you, we will not vanish, until the moon broke
the dark like a firefly waiting for the dead
revealing post-it notes left by my notebook:

-why is the mystery of fires dancing themselves thin on water always
left unquestioned?

-sometimes even I get fed up with Asian-Americans
who think AA history compromises the melting pot they were taught
to believe in.
 
-my god, these one way streets are unbearable,
leaving no room for decision.

-I'm tired of Asians at the casino, and Asian themes to attract disenchanted refugees.

I hunger to speak to dreams, to swallow fire, to love.
I miss dreaming with you/wish you were here.

2. “In the City I Love You”

Today I bought this postcard to remind myself, I love you,
and to let you know that
the world outside these newspapered tenements,
I have become akin to,
are actually populated with suspended glowing orbs of burning halogen
that crawl their way down to the ground
like incense sticks drawn out on new years, drowning out the stars
with my bilingual wishes of calling home—

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