Fawn Skin


A cape, a poncho,

a smear of tar.

A country says

to come in with

our mouths

closed, hands

inside pockets,

until our name

is called. They

give out free

bubble gum at

the INS office,

no ginseng for

the ones who have

bound feet, no do-

re-mi for children who

smell like music,

no Welcome to

America sticker

for the grand father

in plaid.


But you, who are

made out of gold,

you who sit cross-

legged tapping your

fawn skin shoes,

there is tea waiting

in the next room.

Take your time.

(c) Sam Roderick Roxas-Chua