San Jose, CA 1986 By F. Omar Telan

In a room of my own faces,
I say my name in English
to remind me of my color.

I shake hands with the me
across the room. His grip
is a slow vise. When I

try to release him, our
skins have blended. His
blood pounds into my arm

Another me embraces me
from behind. His lips bite
into my spine. There

is now a wrist where my
nipple should be. My voice
in my ear, Your face

is a Cartesian plane.
A child colored blocks
to arrange your features.