At home, I check the tag

on my rainbow shirt: made in India. 

The tag on my vintage-looking jeans: 

made in China. The tag 

on my boxer briefs: made in Mexico. 

As I walk my Indo-Chinese-Mexican body

through San Francisco density,

I wonder if my organs 

truly fused in my mother’s womb

or in a far-off factory.

When I jump onto 

a Union Square cable car, 

I tear open my chest 

and ask a tourist to check 

the tag on my silkscreen heart.