The things new in boxes, sitting straight on store shelves,

hard-plastic blister a window to things we couldn’t afford.

I would read the backs of the packages, commit the ethnicity of each

G.I. Joe and his primary

and secondary specializations to memory,

firepower and speed of Optimus Prime versus Sideswipe.

My dad got a gun because that’s what soldiers do,

even when they’re not on the front lines.

Hid it, locked away

secret where I never found it;

watched two of his sons

join the U.S. military,

read the paper about war on his break.

He wanted more: just enough, but more,

for us.

I would run around the block, pretend I was running away from home

unable to see my way out of this place, all cracked concrete and broken

bottles and black swirls of graffiti I could read but not understand:

why people looked at us, called us names,

pushed us around like we had never survived anything.

I wanted to fight and fight and be this big person who’d make you tremble

just being near, wouldn’t even need to hear me talk

to know I was important,

fear the trajectory of my fists and the orbit of my kicks.

You would hide, and then you would want

to be me

and none of the people I loved would ever want for anything

so of course they would want me.

Today my daughter likes Hello Kitty but I’m not convinced she sees it.

Vague shapes, no mouth,

thick outlines of symmetry and dots and flat planes of color,

blue and purple and pink,

looping lines forming empty shapes,

sparkle that has to be glued on, yet flakes off.

She orbits the shapes and tears at them for hours

until she falls asleep and forgets them.

I never know if she ever feels full within her own outline.

I fear I’m spoiling her.

Then I remember what family she comes from

and I think to myself

let her have,

and throw away.

Full Contact

Five-year-old brushes her teeth like it’s a contact sport—

holds the toothbrush still inside her tense grimace, then

shakes her whole head vigorously.

She plays air guitar, moving her hands seemingly at random

but with a look of intense concentration,

afraid to miss a note.

All very Waverly.

Not just to combat stereotypes, I want to tell her

to swing an air-record scratch in there,

disrupt rock-goddess fantasy with that typewriter clack-spit

she claims is beatboxing.

Take a night off from flossing.

Love the toothpaste

that never made it to the walls of your teeth,

instead splattering to crust the sink.

There will be more than enough years

to punish yourself for imperfection.

Dream yourself a unicorn shitting rainbows

propelling you much higher

than gossamer wings.

Geek Triptych

I. King of Monsters

Whether due to a persona I developed in Phillips to avoid getting jumped, or the astral projection of introvert armor, or simply by virtue of being a Southeast Asian male in Minnesota, strangers usually don’t try to talk to me. But maybe as I get older, I appear more welcoming. The other day a seemingly nice older white man whom I don’t know exclaimed, “I really don’t care for this hot weather—are you from Japan?” Hell yeah, I should have said. In fact, you know that movie Godzilla? That’s based on my life. Yet do you see them crediting me? I am sick of Hollywood co-opting my story. It makes me want to vomit radioactive apocalypse and commit zombie homicide, except in my version there’s more than one Asian who survives. Our real conversation was not nearly as fun, but at least it didn’t end in violence. Our daughter overheard this and admonished me: “Don’t talk to strangers, Daddy.” It was a beautiful day outside, perfect for reading a new book in short-sleeved clothing, which I did, all the while reminding myself to scowl more in public.