Yubeen (Karen) Lee

One of the Two

from both countries, she owns
pepper spray—common sense for us
to fend away evil. The thin bruises

and bloodied cuts don’t pay a penny
of sympathy for their tenderness. For the homes
they cost us, for the unflinching permanence

of foreigner. For the tide pools of jokes
about small eyes. For the brutality that storms
inside those pupils. Later, under the dust

of my mirror, I gag, grabbing one wrist
with the other hand until fingerprints ghost. Wishing
you could not see. Your body is red again.

Red, blue, and white. The colors draw
a canvas of two flags, one decorated with stars
and the other captured by the yin

and yang. Study hard. You’re Asian, you have to be
smart. You’re a girl; don’t be dumb.

            Each phrase another phantom, chasing you
across a bridge to perfection. Into a pot
of gold, a mirage. The boat sinks, stranded

            on a lonely island. Find a rich husband. Act dumb. Act
naive. Give three children a happy home. Happiness

like a chokehold, happiness shoved
in your mouth with Kimchi
pancakes. Then, you’re called fat 

by your great grandmother, molding you
with the same cookie cutter
that once molded her. Unattractive. No,

unseen. Unseen as a Chinese girl. But you’re not
Chinese. You’re just a girl flipping
your pillow so one can see the ghosts

of your tears. A girl silencing. Wondering
how to protect herself. Wondering why
only girls have to. Why only Asians have to.

Wondering why I am both, why I don’t know
the full lyrics to Party in the USA, trying
my best to sync my lips to the song—

hopping off the plane at JFK with a dream
hidden in my black sweatshirt. I still have

one of the two.

Yubeen (Karen) Lee is a rising senior attending Virginia Episcopal School in Lynchburg, Virginia. She is an aspiring poet from South Korea. Her work has been published in Teen Ink, Afterpast Review, and more. She has also won a National Silver Medal from the 2023 Scholastic Art & Writing Awards.