New York City by Leyao Dong

“New York City” fallen,

Landing on my carpeted ground

(dotted with speckles of Goldfish and lint).

Bustling Harlem, fried fish on a plastic counter

(Can you believe all this seafood only costs $7?)

A Black girl squirts tartar sauce on her styrofoam

tray squeezing a wedge of lemon so hard the juice

spewed into the eager whites of her eyes —

and she rubbed them, silently, her mother

passes her a wrinkled napkin and pats her on the back:

“Don’t let the fish get cold!”

the girl sniffles and sprinkles salt and pepper and a dash of

cocktail sauce and she shakes shakes shakes

the box until its crispy contents

are evenly coated in acidic, creamy, salty concoction.

I dangle the plastic bag from my pointer finger

feeling the pressure of the twisted handle on my second knuckle

within this capitalist creation rests a styrofoam box of my own

from which permeates the salty, fishy scents of sea.

we have beaches of our own, you know, he’d said as

we scrolled down a tattered street the men’s piercing gazes

cutting through my double-lined miniskirt,

in New Jersey.

Yet I am certain that the lucky fish of my consumption

had not grown up in the alleged oceans of New Jersey—

it had swam through the metro lines intersecting

and diverging like scientific streams each color-coded and meticulously ordered—

yet a river at its core.

It had traveled through the sewers, the clouds, into the raindrops,

the puddles that formed in central park tainting the runners’

expensive sneakers, the dogs’ supple paws, the child’s polka-dotted rain boots.

It had drank from the taps of Harlem, with water that tasted faintly like metal,

faintly sweet, faintly sour—surely un-right in some way yet not exactly distinguishable

so I drank it anyway.

And upon its beheading by the chef’s merciless knife

I am certain that no blood erupted from the gush

but silver plasma.

I hope that my fish is not soggy

Perhaps I should’ve put less ketchup, and more to the side

The black woman

at the African market

-haggled me.

She tells me

50 dollars, Handmade

-in Africa.

The wrinkled hands

skin the tender

underbelly of a

newborn lamb

wrapping a plastic

accordion folder

with the fresh

dripping

-skin.

Its screams were

heard for miles

away Traveling

alongside the fragments

of its flesh

Across the

ocean where

a black woman

holds them in her

hands and

Tells me

50$,

-very cheap.

I do not

Blame her for

my people, had

too, held

me in their hands,

Haggled me,

Sold me to

lustful passerbys

who desired

-Nothing

I saw her speckled hands

Grasp the two

ends of the

rough, woven string,

I feel them

Graze my upper

lip uprooting the

miniscule hairs that

-Made me a man.

It hurts, mother

It hurts, please

Make it stop,

I am being

Skinned alive

-Can’t you see?

Can’t you see

her fingers twirl

the rough string

that Crashed into

my gentle cupid’s

Bow can’t you

See the stubborn

hairs Pulled from

my unforgiving pores

Can’t you See

the redness of

my swollen lips

the silence of

my wide open

-Mouth.

My people, had

too, Wrapped me

around an accordion

folder and shipped

me away where

all they see is

my enchanting exoticity

“Made in China”

yet so very cheap

so I do not

Blame you

-not at all

I see the

tiny wooden

stool you sit

on too close

to the ground

barely containing

your Formidable

Femininity-

do not let

It touch the ground,

-Woman of Color.

Let the lamb live on,

In your wrinkled hands.

Must I return to Harlem?

The man on the corner of 127th

and Madison Avenue,

had whistled and stared

When I walked by the Whites

Of his eyes reflecting

The red glow of the

Deli shop across the

street.

“May I have a sip?”

he asked as my

steps quickened, the melting

latte in my hand dripping down my sleeve

icy sweetness mixing with boiling, salty

sweat

His companions giggle, pat him on

the back I feel my Breasts

jiggle each time I step on the

cheap concrete ground its hardened greeting

Shooting up my body trickering

out like breastmilk

awaiting a loving mouth

Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.

Perhaps if I were brave enough I

would offer him a sip

Watch as his wrinkled brown lips

(with its light pink edges)

Cover the tip of the straw

Watch as his

adam's apple move up and down

gushing down the sugary juice

Watch as his gaze travels back

to me and hands

me the melting latte

Watch as he

Smiles.

After Sunday Service They come to the laundromat.

Metal carts trot to the rhythms

of tumbling linen; detergent, softener, bleach

quietly awaiting to deter, soften, bleach.

They check the time, speed up, wrists nimbly twisting:

baggy sweater, linen shirt, collared dress,

navy tie, wired bra, worn-out sweatshirt,

white tank top, knit headband,

socks, socks, socks.

Inside the Big Tumbler the juices of their differing threads blend

their hues amalgamating to form an earthy brown expelled to the

Bustling Harlem streets from the sewage beneath.

Was this Black sorcery? Mother asks,

No, I say, they merely try to deter, soften, bleach.

They merely try to live.

I hope the orangey ketchup stain on her favorite shirt melts tenderly away.