Please don’t hate me when I step

out of my parents’ car, as I sweat

my bags and boxes

up and down the

long stairs, the

nautilus

with

corners.

 

Please don’t hate my door,

my name,

don’t hate

the girl made out of smoke

who doesn’t know how to smile.

 

Please don’t hate me

black-clad in the back pew,

I sat there

precisely

so you

wouldn’t have to

see

me.

 

Because I

may not be a

perfect

pink

confection—

 

I might have

big

raw

grains of

salt

in my frosting—

 

and you who have lived

in the

airtight

manicured

heart of Fairyland, where the sky is

chlorinated blue and the

intentions of men are

cloaked in

euphemism

and

the strains of

“All Along the Watchtower” have

never

bled

over the hills,

 

you feel

threatened

by me

because

I am an

immigrant

here,

I came from reality

and I have the

muddy shoeprints to

prove it.

 

I don’t hate you at all.

I would be your friend.

 

But I will not be your

serving-girl,

speaking nothing

but replies,

 

I will not

believe you when you

lie

to me—and you have lied,

 

I will not trust your

redefinition of accepted words and

I will not put on

 dancing slippers

because my

half-dead

work boots

offend you.

 

The invaders

will soon

realize

this place

exists, and we

may yet have

to

flee.