I force the ocean into my room, lighting candles until
            my nose is numb.
Cerulean Surf and Sea, Mediterranean Breeze, 
            Linen Sheets Infused with Fresh Ocean Air,
Waterside Vacation, Sex on the Beach.

                                                                     They lied. They smell like geraniums. Citrus.
                                                                     Strawberries and pears. Teakwood and coconut.
                                                                     The stale wine I drink in the dark to sleep
                                                                     without dreams.

I light my candles like it’s the night before Mid-Autumn,
            wax on my fingers and fire in my nose, chili pepper
flames. As white girls on TikTok shove garlic bulbs
            into their sinuses, I play Cantopop and try to tame Mazu.

                                                                     She drowns me. Her disgraced daughter. Holy
                                                                     Heavenly Mother. Holy Mother. Holy Mary, 
                                                                     Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at 
                                                                     the hour of our death.

Deaths, five million of them worldwide, each one
            my fault. White girls clear their noses on TikTok
just to turn them up at me, the yellow menace, the chink bitch
            who brought the Covid to our beautiful country.

                                                                     Fresh off the boat. A girl in my school follows
                                                                     me around. I’m from Hong Kong. Close enough
                                                                     to Korea. She gives me a card on Chingming
                                                                     Festival. Gong hei fat choi, written in red colour
                                                                     pencil on white paper.

I pinch stars into the back of my hand. Twist
            the skin until it breaks. Red, like Chinese
New Year and luck. White for death, morning robes.
            Where’s the lucky third? I carry blue in
finger-shaped bruises from grocery stores and gas stations.

                                                                     Cantonese falls from my lips. My eyes burn. In
                                                                     dreams that hurt in the morning, I can speak. The
                                                                     pawn shop air. Blood candle wax. How much for
                                                                     the smell of saltwater?