It was 1983 I was 14 years old the night
Charmaine Makaiyak led me in secret
to the basement kitchen of St. Matt’s cafeteria
She put her lips on my left earlobe
and soft-sang two choruses of Prince’s “Do Me”
so I might finally learn how to slow dance right
Was it winter? — because the prettiest sophomore
at the Annual Filipino Family Gala
took my hand and an icy wave
climbed up my banks a blizzard wind
shook both my alleys and all my leaves
fell off my trees
What’s a bony floppy-haired boy to do
but keep his eyes wide open acknowledge
the tabernacles of silence built above him
and then open his arms
to enter the thick religious mist
of grape hair spray that surrounds the girl
who is about to kiss him?
Every once in a while it is good
for us to remember there was one February
of the last millennium when Prince was
Filipino just like me five-foot-two
in big-heel shoes He sang so good
and played every instrument All the rumors
we wanted to believe He was our Ecclesiastes
of Nasty our Funky Future our unrepentant
sweet and sinful serenade
While all the grown-ups spazzed out to Laura Branigan
Charmaine and I convened in the dark
tearing at the seams of rayon
to study the country that history hid inside us
Every time we shifted our hips we killed
another century By August
they’d pop Ninoy in the skull and drop him
bloody on the tarmac of Manila International
so we slow jammed and sucked each other’s lips
under the fat dazzle of a disco ball Dawn
and dusk I watched both Jersey skies turn
purple OK Prince was never Filipino And I
was never very American even
when I was one of two horny kids
trying to get back to where our parents’ tropics
first burned and so what a lucky bum I was
when Charmaine snuck me
into the room where custodians kept all the fire
I held her until the sun bumped through
and the heavens swelled
the color of a busted left eye socket
Before you could type your name in light
to find where in the world your body was hype
before fiber optic before
we got terachomped before we hired a machine
to count the hits
a girl let me hook one finger
into the loop of her tight stonewash
Jordache knockoffs
and I brushed my thumb back and forth
over the little mile of sweat-cooled skin
hiding under the cropped neon tanktop
riding up her side She taught me to move
I never went to sleep
It was 1983
America didn’t know what time it was—
and neither did we