There are no Filipinos in Mississippi

JACKSON AVENUE WEST

but when there are, we’re crowding
the sidewalk at the impossible intersection,
all six of us— well, the five of them

and the one of me, watching
from a hazy window of the Blue West
screeching to a stop. I know the cars here

are relentless and unyielding. The guts
of the pedestrian button spill out
from the pole. The five Filipinos

glance at each other, their faces
like my face searching, weeks before,
for a kind pair of eyes in the cold.

Their hands know there’s one way
to cross. They reach for each other’s
fingers, their wrists and sleeves,

readying to move as one. I watch them
flood the crosswalk, this impenetrable
body cresting to full speed.

There are no Filipinos in Mississippi

ASIAN FOODS MARKET & RESTAURANT, TUPELO

no one to buy the mango Magnolia ice cream for $14.99

no one to pause and complain, What? Isn’t this the Magnolia State?

no one to provide a price comparison to Seafood City or Manila Mart

no one to brainstorm what exactly the gold label claims to mean

no one to prop open the glass door and shiver beneath the weight

no one to contemplate the severity of third-degree freezer burn

no one to hover fingertips over the crystalized ice and press deep

no one who knows how the mangoes survive this lonely cold

There are no Filipinos in Mississippi

PRICE STREET & after Jericho Brown

so the man on the bus asks, Why’re you here?

            On the bus, with the man, I’m here,
            but my body lurches into the window.

A heavy boot hits the gas. The hard window
cradles my head. Outside, the branches tremble.

            The man cocks his head. My hands tremble.
            In the South, winter comes out of nowhere.

I know the South. The man comes out of nowhere,
salivating for the islands: Where were you born?

            Salivating for the islands, I wasn’t born
            anywhere too far from the magnolias.

All too far from the magnolias,
there are no Filipinos in Mississippi.