Troy Osaki

Not My Barong from the Closed-Down Asian Mart on Lake City Way but Another One

White tee tucked. From the closet, a hooked

hanger of a hundred grabbed. Plastic wrap

covers my sheer shirt, the way my beloved’s

footprints are somewhere in summer mud

in our country where the scent of fish sauce

on our fingers doesn’t leave. I put on what my

mother’s godsister picked up at a roadside

market in Manila—I call her auntie, though

we’ve met once & aren’t related. I’d call her

auntie even if we never meet again. I stand

in front of my full-length IKEA mirror,

house slippers on, my shirt pocketless &

see-through—as it’s been before, our bolos

hidden nowhere. Outside, a Spanish ship

sinks. My people, a shore of them, watch

—someone swims out to view close up,

comes back, & saves no one.