Curling, over-simplified
When curlers sweep or slide or burn
I wonder what they feel?
Despite their visage oh-so-stern
Perhaps it’s boules for which they yearn
Those plucky lads and lassies learn
That stones are hard to peel!
Maggie Creshkoff 3/16/2010
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You stifle a laugh
when I say Hawaiian Creole
is its own language
and instead speak
in hushed tones
of colored men lusting after blondes
like yourself.
Their gang imaginings:
the panting pursuit and capture
as they rake brown eyes
over your body
or so you claim
as they walk on by
puffing cigarettes
and fumbling cell phones.
At book club you serve humus and pita cut
into neat wedges
and interrupt the discussion
of The Kite Runner
to disclose your checks to Haiti
or Chile
or wherever
just so those poor people
have a tent to stay in.
You say spiritual
and 5-star resort
and Ayers Rock in the same breath
whose real name
you are careful to point out
is Uluru.
My dear friend,
you say,
I often forget you're not white
and smile into my
yellow face.
May Kuroiwa March 2010