If I could move like Jackie Chan,
I would twist ten times in the air then walk up a wall before you could
take one breath;
I would open windows with my forehead and never bother to scream;
I would dangle by my toes from a hundred-foot billboard to make sure
you noticed my legs;
I would hang weightless in a right-snap lunge while a jagged city
sparkled at nightfall;
I would weave your name in the scrolling motions of my hands;
In a dark alley, I would lure our enemies toward me from right and left
then double-backflip onto a fire escape and watch heads knock together,
an old Stooges routine;
I would spin through the stars like a satellite, and, if you cared,
I would catch you out of the sky and lay you on a mountain of pillows,
look deep in your eyes and open my mouth,
and a voice reading lines in perfect English would flow over my lips,
flailing,
praising a passion you have never really shown me,
pouring out phrases you will never translate.