My girlfriends are surrounded by silks
and I am outside,
looking in on this library of the feminine:
rolls of ruby and cherry blossoms,
cool sapphire dragon pools,
jade envy forests—
manuals to be chosen from
just beyond the stall of heady spices,
in the Duyun covered market. 

I shuffle softly to hide my girth
behind a butcher block table
while the seamstress giggles,
fingertips to lips,
at the numbers that measure
my friends’ willowy western lengths.
Their souvenirs: handmade Chi Paus—
dresses with slender, eastern cuts
which, while worn, will lend an instant
image of exoticness.

My souvenir: fear
of the tape wide
round my hips, my thighs,
my belly—
marking the size of
a true ‘panda’,
Chinese slang for ‘westerner’, or
the name of an animal
which is black-eyed, weary,
fumbling,
unnapproached,
unnapproaching.