Sylvia Chan
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In Front of Frank Ogawa
We drove out past the congregation to watch the poplars
To jimmy the Porta Potty door which does not lock
so anyone can barge in
Bà, we idealize humiliation; we can’t help but grin
like Siamese cats when we’re hungry
To unshuck our chicken feet, enameled to the ground like poplar roots
To start a riot through insurgency, two poplars competing for the same light
To ride the nightmares, our throats steeped in oolong tea
What is the break in the series?
Keep patting Frank Ogawa’s bronze bust
as though its rust would never varnish
when you laid down your weapons
Keep caressing your comrade’s shoulder
unclenching them like dried orange
peels, the perfect skin of the girl
who would be my mother
Keep dubbing yourself Oscar Grant
your neck a vehicle
for enamel encampment –
a chain of civitas –
your teeth clenched
to save yourself
from lynching
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Sylvia Chan is a poet from Hayward, California. Formerly a jazz pianist in the San Francisco East Bay, she lives in Tucson, where she teaches English at the University of Arizona. Her debut book, We Remain Traditional, is forthcoming from the Center for Literary Publishing in 2018.