Twinkie, by John Choe

What happens to a dream deferred?

Maybe it doesn’t dry up,
Like a raisin after all.

But ferments,
Like a pot of kimchi.
Maybe it sizzles,
Like a hot pan of bulgogi.

Does a dream deferred explode,
like a Samsung phone
Or last forever like a Twinkie?
Yellow on the surface and white inside, right?
A ching-chong chink painted with artificial colors,
like a metaphor for racism itself:
sponge cake injected with homegrown xenophobia
that never expires.

Didn’t you call me a Twinkie,
while you planted a funhouse mirror in front of me,
casting white guys in yellow face,
buck teeth, taped eyelids,
a sibilant Asian accent.
Is this what you see in me?
Maybe we can pull the white out of whitewash,
And pour in yellow to add more color.
I want to be the hero
In the next Indiana Jones,
hear my voice narrate like Ray Liotta in…