Atlanta, Georgia. March 16th, 2021. Robert Aaron Long

entered the spa with his gun

and opened fire.

The targets were the Asian women

who worked at the spa. He killed six.

Eventually the police found him. He took it on the chin.

Does anyone remember Vincent Chin?

Surely it hasn’t been too long

since that happened. A baseball bat, six

times to the skull (perhaps a gun

was too quick for him?) and that woman,

his fiancee, sees him cremated on the fire

of hate, when the Chrysler workers got fired

and wouldn’t distinguish between Nihon and Ch’in.

And now Vincent is joined by the women

from the spa. They shake pallid, white hands. There’s a long

pause, as the last echoes of the gunshot

reach the ears that cannot hear them. Half past six

the radio blares in my mother’s car. “-They say his sex

addiction may have been a factor in-” Please set my ears on fire.

I’ve heard enough stories about the man with the gun.

As if he had a really bad day. The radio host keeps his chin

up, of course. Oblivious to his own job: stringing me along,

making me think about anything but those women.

I still can’t remember the names of the women

who died that night. All six

escape my mind. But Robert Long

is there. He just burns, a white-hot fire

in the pit of my chest, stroking his chin

and smiling. His legacy holds me at the point of a gun.

To those failed activists–the Asian action heroes with their big guns

and big explosions, helpless women

in their arms, the politicians up to their chin

in meetings and compromises–I say nothing. Six

soprano voices whisper in my head, stoking the bright yellow fire

of revolution. Huh. What a shame it took that long.

You’ve held it there for so long, pressed against my forehead. The gun.

Even now, you fear what I’ll do without it. But in the name of those six women

I forget restraint, moderation. I raise my chin, and your world explodes in fire.