What you came here to witness
is my body laying sideways,
asking you between chuckles,
“Baby, can you pick the dead
skin from my pimples?”
This is not a fag’s easy way
out—this is pure
gold jewelry: Maria Felix’s Cartier crocs;
the green staring directly at you, asking
for penance—a do
over. You’re here
to watch me tan naked,
in the salon or out by the pool.
This is not a story about immigration.
This is you remembering how I entered
your body; this is me faking
a southern accent. Do you desire
the rugged hands, the boots? The hat
hiding my unibrow?
Am I more palatable now?