i am not let in
the asian receptionist
the seed of my french and spits
it into the air.
there is something in me shriveling.
this is not even her language, i think.
it is not mine either.
its skin more wrinkled, more light.
i look at the way the eyeliner,
thick soot black
has missed the rim of her eyes.
“i have a lot of work” she says
in an english that’s a piece of glass on the floor
and this thing in me wants
to clamp down its boot and
the sick power of being human
i want to say something
just to make her feel
like she is the one without
a bloody access card.
Painting by Guaya Samin