Of Los Angeles, 1992

          They’re among the most alien of aliens, the most American of Americans.

                        —“The Chinese-American — Silent Majority”

It was easier then to summon Chinese men

from the cornerstores. Some evenings

my father would slice open his palm and release

a raven. The raven would become a pair

of moons, then an end

of day. It was a summer of gold

and we felt fevers breaking

between our fingertips.

Another dawn; and still

the police knew nothing

of my mother’s whereabouts. We kept

the door unshut for her return.

The radio spoke at a flame’s frequency.

The television chyron read “RACE WAR.”

On the news, we witnessed

storefronts collapse into fists

of neon. Rotting stars. Our daydreams 

filled all emptied spaces.

Some mornings Grandma would rest her feet

on a rocking chair, and knit a second

curtain to shield the living

room from the heat. She'd murmur

into the open window,

her hands reviving another shadow

against the bright bullethole of the sun.