Ashley C. Lanuza
June 2024
Ashley C. Lanuza is a published author, editor, spoken word poet, and lifelong learner. She is a born-and-raised Angeleno who graduated from UCLA with a BA in Psychology and a minor in Film Studies and Asian American Studies. Her writing experience spans from the creative to the analytical. Her interests vary, too: lifestyle, travel, culture, relationships, psychology, art, film, and Los Angeles. Her debut poetry collection, My Heart of Rice: a Poetic Filipino American Experience, can be found at your favorite online retailer. Ashley is currently studying for her Master's in Creative Writing at the University of Cambridge.
kamayan (hands)
Home is made of
sticky white rice
boiling sauce, thick and meaty
sizzling cloves and slices
humming tea kettles
and the food you’ve made,
its steam curling to the ceiling.
Fried fish sits on the table,
salted and seared
by the market down the street.
Jasmine rice on my plate,
sterling silver spoons shine
beside the fork.
I avoid utensils
in favor of five fine fingers.
Thumb touching
index, middle, ring, and pinky,
I pick up my rice.
You sit across from me,
mild irritation sprinkled
in your voice as you say
Pick up your spoon.
Pick up your fork.
Do not use your hands.
We are in America.
the good
Music blasts from the sharply-tuned band and I
throw a week’s earnings to greedy fingers and I
grab this woman’s smooth fingers into my calloused palms.
Her skin is milky white to my caramel brown and I
hold her tall stature and caress her blonde hair and I
look into her blue eyes trying to find myself and I
cannot find me,
but this is all I have for romance.
the bad
And I step into the crisp air of midnight
and knuckles grab the lapel of my suit
and my fingers slip from the door
and my head pounds on the black cement—
and I hold my breath.
And their masculine bodies pounce on me
like lions attacking prey.
And their milky white bodies kick mine until
my caramel skin paints the pavement red.
And the crunch of my bones, the slaps on my skin
break me
like the pieces of my already-fractured spirit.
Go back to where you came from!
blends with the sound of cracking cartilage
And I scream in silence
because no one wants to hear me.