We Eat Chicken Feet and We Are Not Dead
We eat chicken feet and we are not dead
Our bowls are rimmed with bats and fire flies
Our feet pedal sewing machines making blue denim jeans
We march in Chinatown protesting discrimination
Corona virus has no yellow skin nor brown eyes
We are delivery workers, doctors, dancers, actors
Our ancestors memorized the number of doors and windows in the
home village, whether our fathers had more than one wife
Our foremothers sold their bodies to feed their children
Ah Bing cultivated wild and sweet cherries in Oregon,
disappeared in China
We make masks and we don’t hide
We fight for Asian American Studies
Agitating for inclusion is a political act
We strike for higher wages, rest periods for our aching backs
We are immigrants at home all over the world
We are natives, born in Eureka, Augusta, Oakland, Phoenix, Flushing
We dispense herbs, make soup to heal our bodies
Harvest chrysanthemums, grapes, pea shoots, taro
Oh yeah, we yakety yack, we jitterbug and jive, play flutes and drums
We dream and we braise and steam and we write
We eat chicken feet and we are not dead.
This poem has been included in an online poetry exhibition called Voices of Resilience.
