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Ode to a Chinese Bathroom

By Irina Li


Like the first vibrant blossoms of spring

The odor is the first thing that leaps to greet you

Like an overzealous uncle

Who is confirmed to be on a list

And in the same way you gingerly sidestep copious amounts of intergenerational trauma 

You will be forced to wedge yourself between the floral dresses of many old aunties and grandmas in an attempt to find an open stall

And like how the turkey ends up depressingly, horribly dry

You end up opening the stall door to see a three foot long porcelain-rimmed hole in the ground

Covered in piss, hair, and if Lady Luck actually just fucking hates you, fecal matter

The toilet flushes automatically as if to waggle its eyebrows hello

You bear the indignity and stench of squatting low over the bowl 

As if making an unwilling sacrifice to some ancient sulfuric god below

That spews poo-infused droplets in a gurgling, discontented voice

A fly buzzes around you as you pull up your pants, keeps you company as you wash your hands

The terrible, scarring ordeal finally over, only to find there are no paper towels

Yeah, wipe

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