Dorothy Chan
I usually write my poems in one take. As a poet, I’m very Frank-Sinatra-as-an-actor coded. Ol' Blue Eyes preferred the raw emotion of the first take and often refused to do more. My mentor, the great Alberto Ríos, once said, “There is no such thing as a coincidence.” Frank Sinatra was my first crush: I was once a four-year-old in Hong Kong hearing his voice in a cab for the first time, captivated.
I don’t want my “first take” point to read as arrogant. I simply have a lot of feelings and rawness inside me. I use poetry as reclamation, especially as a survivor who is an Asian femme navigating American existence. “Pretty Lady—” formerly “Temptress—” is one of the exceptions to my “first take” rule. I’ll admit when “Temptress—” was “done,” she still felt off. Despite the caesuras, em dashes, and ampersands, she still felt restricted. Despite her sawtooth margin, she still felt too “boxed up.” The speaker of the poem is in a coercive relationship with an older man who infantilizes her; she calls upon Aphrodite to help her push that horrible man off the bed. The poem must open up structurally. I believe in taking up as much space as possible, and “Pretty Lady—” utilizes nearly the whole document. This is my reclamation as someone who has been sexualized and fetishized since a young age.
I changed the title from “Temptress—” to “Pretty Lady—” (which reminds me of Pretty Woman), because it had to be more jarring. What grown ass femme wants to be called shallow nicknames like “Beautiful”? I had to painfully recall all the “pet names” this man called me while addressing me like a child ready for playtime.
Ground rule: If you love me, just call me Dorothy.
Photo credit Joshua David Watson
< DRAFT 1 >
Temptress
He would call me on the phone. I always
Loved entertaining older men until they
Took it too far, trying to domesticate me,
Epitome of who they should’ve married
When they had the chance. I’d really love
Someone who sears lollipop lamb chops
Arranging them on a plate with tomatoes
For me. Experience means nothing when
You give up parts of yourself for someone
You will never — ever — in any universe
Love, though you love the attention when
You’re both sitting in bed you’re mostly
Turned on by yourself your beauty he
Won’t shut up about. Clit ignited. Rockets.
At twelve, you refined your way, Tommy
Hilfiger underwear, bikini-cut, rhinestones
Shaped into a palm tree.
Now. He begs — pleads
To touch you. His gray hair = he’s too old
For his button nose and puppy dog eyes
Pleading your black eyes, playing victim,
As if being turned on & getting no action
Is the worst thing that could ever happen
To a person. He lifts the folds of your body
Suit You tell him Stop He pushes you
Down on the bed Shhhhh You wish
You’d claw him in the face, denting
His wrinkles You hate his tongue that pathetic
Tongue that can’t pleasure, because
He keeps convincing you you’re soulmates from
Two different decades, which reads
Like a script from Old Hollywood tabloids. Once
You were a girl embarrassed to play
Aphrodite in a school play. You had to grow into
Her. But the goddess of love & sex
Work & procreation & recreation will always have
Your back when you push that old
Man off the bed out the door in every universe.
