A rundown pub tucked in a sleeping village,
A Sunday roast served on a cloudy day,
A pint gargled down the throat.
I was becoming English with every drop of ale
I drank.
A few odd looks thrown in this way.
Your frowned at me.
I’m a stranger, an outsider,
a foreigner, a migrant,
a student, a tourist.
Your kind smile I don’t deserve.
Chink, you clenched your teeth:
Go back to your own country!
My country? I said to myself:
I have no country,
A queer migrant has no country.
But there’s no time to explain.
Grabbing my bag, I ran
as fast as I could.
The rambling country road
led nowhere near home.
Hong Wei was born in China and currently lives in Nottingham, UK. His writing explores issues of queer Asian identity and transcultural intimacy. His work has appeared in Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Room 1000, Pen to Print, Positions: Asian Critique, Shanghai Literary Review, Soundings, The Conversation, Words Without Borders and Yishu.
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