By Jeanne Yu

When my friend says,
I don’t think of you as Asian,
the puzzle of me unexpectedly
disassembles into a jumble
of shapes
amongst all the familiar
of what makes me
who I am, my genetics,
ancient culture passed thousands
of years, deep brown eyes
looking back at me
questioning my question,
was this meant to be
a compliment?

The big picture box top
nowhere to be found,
assimilation misplaced, I resort
to sorting the corner and edge
pieces first, for something to hold onto,
lost among the keys
and locks of the repressed,
spilled on the floor.

I begin to cajole and rally
all the fallen pieces,
back into who I
have become.
My reluctant inside
peces collide,
frantically working to reassemble
a composure cultivated
over decades
to resemble
this me -
who does not on this day
want to unduly upset my friend.

About the Author

Jeanne Yu is a writer, a technologist, an environmentalist, a proud mom, and an urban chicken farmer who lives with curiosity and hope for the world - one day at a time. She completed an MFA at Pacific University in January 2023. Her poems appear in Rattle and her book reviews in the Oregon Poetry Association. She is the assistant poetry editor at Northwest Review.