Boba Pearl with a Heartbeat

I worry in this new way

for the less a “blueberry”

and more a “boba-pearled 

curl” within me with a heartbeat

who has a grandmother 

who saunters taller than 4’11 

& doesn’t believe 

in police so yells at the white

terrorist swinging punches

at the man who has just dropped 

his bags of pink pastry boxes to gather

then scoop his weeping eyes from 

the BART train floor;

has a grandfather who

is adamant about daily five mile walks

despite bad knees & long detours

at the newly renovated library,

where he traces the Alcala 

and Delgado names from 

Naga City to Madrid 

as if claiming Spain lightened 

anyone’s skin;

has so many aunties and uncles 

with fists to protect & bowls of gingered

arroz caldo to console, who will cup 

gummed-up sections of citrus

until the entire pomelo is juiced.

I worry in regular old ways:

insisting the pepper spray canister 

into my father’s hands, 

sliding the red button off of the safety, spraying into wild honeysuckle 

and clumps of black mustard 

for target practice.

This otherworldly (celestial?) 

tapioca bead doesn’t hear the words

“terrorist,” “white supremacist,” or “white

man having a bad day in Atlanta.”

The taste between love & rage 

is a grandmother taking her time

to scorch 

a yam’s skin 

over an open flame

to get to the sweetness.

Image Credits: David Flores

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This piece is part of our Fall 2021 In-Residence series, Blooming Fiascoes with Ellen Hagan.