She shared her lunch, her pixie cut, bad breath
I know I’m fat, she says, to my protest,
Her skin a darker olive than Xiaofei’s
Five foot and change, her navel like a sign:
Welcome in! Pig tongue, chicken heart, sweet bao
buns, cartilage in my septum, wrong pipe
I’d like to take a nap with her. I don’t
care that she reads Ayn Rand. Perhaps I would
if I were from China. Her dad complains
“You’re here to get a husband.” Mom speaks no
English. They share a morning stew, so bland.
I rampage, angry young man. I see her wince.
I see now: that’s Americans. High ridge
on our noses, broad shouldered, hair like wheat.
We’re French fries, nachos, beer, hamburger meat.