Pipa pipa.
We are a creature easily
missed. Mistaken
for a dead leaf,
a strip of bark. River
bottom debris.
No tongue. No teeth.
We deny our smart mouth,
swallow retorts. Sweep slights
and slurs into our gullet with star
-fingered hands.
Pipa pipa.
Words hurled in the schoolyard.
Chink. Jap. Paki. Try again.
Years later different
spaces, the same words
muttered, hissed.
Scornful faces red
necks.
So many things seething
beneath the surface.
What happens when we’ve
had enough?
What happens when we
breach this prison
of skin?
Pipa pipa.