A Creature and Its Victim

In a fight between two parties,
only one will outsmart the other,
one victor and one loser,
but results often lie,
let’s admit it, we crown champions real easy,
we ameliorate them,
and we humiliate the defeated,
treating them like a bright yellow trash bag
containing a corpse of a cat,
its still, soft body twitching occasionally,
as if its spirit is fighting for another chance, another round
at completing its task of severing
the veins of what was supposedly the victim.
Poor cat, mangled, strangled by Mother,
whose hands are clawed and flowing with blood,
walking out the house carrying her trophy
triumphantly, to the garbage disposal,
plodding about to the praise of invisible powers and people,
while her visible sons stare
at their champion
crumble and form into a
creature.

15.70

Five-teen dollahs and seven tee sense,
says the waitress,
her slang as sharp as the slits of her Chinese eyes,
her verbs and nouns
planted so haphazardly,
almost growing out of her equally garbled flowery apron.

Fifteen Ringgit and seventy cents,
corrects Mom,
in the accent acquired from St. George’s,
where the finest girls are given British brains
to etch up Eastern Elizabeths,
perfectly poised to stand upright, polite and petite,
flawless aristocrats, no bawlers of fowl vowels.

15.70 please,
I mouthed
a weak reply to a matted-haired Mandarin woman,
so meekly I’d hope she wouldn’t mind my English
though she didn’t take matters into hands, her lips battered me
in diction enunciated faster than I could pronounce Women’s Weekly,
exposed me a British banana, muted within my sallow skin.

Spiritual Oppression

Two syllables kept babbling in my ears,
A tape blaring, banging away at my drums
With sticks sprouted with thorns.
Good Lord, take them away,
My hands are bleeding,
Marking my pleadings on the wall
Only You and I could read.
I’m left bleak with unsympathizing, sick
Hands violating me with great shame,
Patronizing again and yet again the repeat button
That plays the agonizing percussion, “You’ve failed.”