Should I feel shame crossing off
the Caucasian box? White is the least
honest color of all—I am not white—
I am shame. I am ashamed of
this box, this paint-by-numbers
diversity quiz. I could be a dyke?
Where’s the box for dead mother?
Where’s the box for adoption?
Identity confused: please call
Governor for report—where’s
the box for junkie—for warrior
gene? For should have been aborted?
Where’s the box for mentally unfit?
Where’s the box for asexual
wannabe? Where’s the space
for the time I got stitches and thought
it was the best thing that ever happened
to me—I was twelve. Stitches were
my identity. How they kept the white
out. Oozing red onto a dishcloth.
I thought I found God.
She was white like me.
I was twelve.
I was twelve.
I was twelve.
I got a McFlurry
with all of the flavors.
Just like my mother.
White like me.
Dead like me.