Contributors * more photos to appear soon

Contributors * more photos to appear soon
Christy Namee Eriksen, kim thompson, Jon Schill

Friday, April 12, 2013


My legs and their legs were
mazes to a hard bass
on the dance floor.

Chris dared three of us to kiss him at once
and our tongues
were so empty
they learned anyone’s language.

I watched John eat a hot dog
and it was disgusting.
Mustard on his chin.
Words and relish falling out of his mouth.
Later he took my shirt off
so hungry
and I stood there like I had things
to offer.

Ryan told me he didn’t like me
but would sleep with me
and I did that for years.

Some nights I held him.

They are whistling,
they are talking about us,
the most beautiful women in the world.

I have never been ashamed to be Asian
except for every time
I wore my skin
like a drink

every time I
let them throw me back
and call me smooth,

I could have been anyone’s granddaughter
I could swing on a bell on a mountain of prayers
I could shave my head and sprinkle pieces of my midnight
all over Korea like a trail, like a bad joke
I could bear the name of a prescription drug
and my ancestors would never feel the pain
I could swallow the pacific
mile by raging mile
and spit
in my mother’s kimchi because

that’s what happens
to your insides

when you see
what they see

when they look at you.

Thursday, April 11, 2013

The Adoptee Statistic

Context: the suicide rate among Korean Adoptees is something staggering like 5 times above average. Here is one guess why:

The Adoptee Statistic (4/5/13, edited 4/11/13)

At night, when the stars come out, I like to pretend each one is an ancestor.
I don’t know if that has any relevance in my History, my heritage;
it has lots of significance in My history. 

They look down at me, speak in a language I can’t understand,
that I’m too lazy to understand;
below the stars already, I sink deeper.

I call my mom--as a troubled child always should
and complain about my job because I lack the vocabulary to say what really bothers me.
My real sadness doesn’t translate,
but manifests as anger, as hate
and she tells me to stop bitching. 
And she’s right
but our blood doesn’t speak the same language
and we’re talking in codes that can’t be broken
so I hang up,
wish I had a mother who needed no translation,
yearn for darkness to reveal more ancestors in the sky
so I can learn by immersion.