Harlem Ang Moh

You are sitting in bed
sweating out a chicken
noodle soup. You watch
from afar.

Teng and Cruz live in a paint speckled
apartment. Teng is dotting the ceiling
and the walls with her skinny pale fingers.

She is poking craters into
the moon at night. She is
sending men to their deaths
with holes in their skulls by doing wet
willies in their temples, execution style.

They have gentrified the yuppies.
Cruz has brought the soul back
to the streets. Teng has blown
up all of the art museums.

Such tackiness. Silly ang moh.
Damned gringos. White flight.
New Harlem Renaissance.

But sometimes they are tender
and they lead the yuppies into
coffee shops and buy them muffins.

You watch them dancing and laughing,
you have a pair of binoculars. You
are their peeping tom.

You are also Pork Bun’s baby sitter.
Sometimes they call you whenever
it’s time for them to sing at the
Yum Cha club.

In the afternoon you hear them
echoing, eres para mí, Nǐ hé wǒ,
always, always, always.

You know who they are. You watched
Teng and Cruz, hand in hand, in loving
embrace, almost forming their own cocoon,
crash into Mother Earth as a meteor
on the Lunar Year. They woke with
their lips connected.

Sweetness exchanged, mi amor.
No pendejas shall steal you.

It was a cold night, you figured
you had too much eggnog, despite
that it wasn’t Christmas anymore.
But they were so beautiful. You
couldn’t your get eyes off of them.

So much so that when
they were looking for a
caretaker for their daughter,
Pork Bun, you were the first
email in their inbox.

Your cover letter looked
like this:I can cook a meen
meel, I can speak conversational
Spanish, I was once a yoga instructor.

You couldn’t spell or split
your lips to form coherent
sentences. And yet, they
hired you. Silly Ang moh
wants to be our friend.