The Hybrid’s Tale

You’re so exotic.

He’d stare into my almond eyes,

one lighter than the other

fingers following the tangled waves

that ran down my shoulder blades.


What was exotic?

My father, blue eyed brute,

born into the Los Angeles slums

when the city lights were still

filled by browning fields.


My mother, unbleached hazel,

proud to say she’s been

an American longer,

than ever a refugee.


You should dye it black.

The tangled waves,

hues of coffee and amber

were never good enough.


You should dress more like them.

I’m sorry,

the pink and blue sampot hol

with silk ruffles and mandarin flowers

don’t match my dirty sneakers,

and for the hundredth time,

it’s not a kimono.

No, I don’t know anyone

who works at that massage parlor

with the women in six inch heels

parading around the golden dragon

out in front.


No, my father didn’t rescue

my mother from the nail salon

and what makes you think

I would know anything about

mail order brides.


Television has taught you

that I should be exotic

and neurotic.

Ready to submit

at the snap of your fingers.


Ready to present,

with a geisha’s poise.

You really expect me to respond?


Her Feral Sister

My sister sat with me in her car,

taking dollar bills out of my purse

because she wasn’t getting paid until next week.

Dollars going through the parking meter,

each beep reminding me of the news she couldn’t wait to tell me.

As she’s redoing her salmon lipstick

and making sure her right eyelash stays put,

she can’t help but let the words slip

I’m starting fresh. This is my new life.

She already has her mom fooled, this one’s the one.

I stare at my phone, nodding that I’m happy for her,

careful not to say

Is this your third new life this year?

She talks about his money, the daughter from a former marriage

how he called her pajamas Grandma,

picked her out some rouge lingerie for the dirty deed.

A few dirty deeds and he wants to move out and buy her a house.

I’m never quite sure what to say, all that comes out is nervous laughter.

Well, boys will be boys.

The one in Vegas comes to mind first, he also promised her forever.

What about the dealer in California? It wasn’t even his house.

I told her that I hope she’s happy this time,

each ring coming from her phone,

a fang severing more freckled skin.


Connie is a freelance writer based in Southern California. When she isn’t writing, she loves watching hockey, going to the movies, and visiting new restaurants around her city.