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 some 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.