Dear B,

You walked by in a white button-down and slacks and I hopped up, happy to see you at a reading. A woman passed by to tell me how much she liked the poems I had just read. She told you she enjoyed your reading too. You looked down, began texting someone, your face like a ticker tape, the words on your phone glowing across it.

But he didn’t read, I said, confused.

Oh, I’m so sorry. It’s been a long few days and I’m tired, she said. And then she did what many of us do when we make mistakes. She kept on talking. Where do you live? I’m certain I’ve seen you read somewhere else then. When did you move away? What year was it? I’m certain I’ve seen you read.

I was there. I am certain you did not read. I am certain it was K who read. I am certain that K is nearly two times taller than you. I am certain K is wider than you. I am certain K was wearing glasses.

I am uncertain if K was wearing a jacket. Uncertain if K was wearing dress shoes or sneakers. Uncertain how K felt while he was reading. Uncertain if K was wearing something around his neck.

When the woman finally left, you were angry. You were so angry I told you my story, a story I hadn’t planned to tell anyone. Three nights before, I read with other poets. I was part of the first group to read. Another Asian American poet also read in the first group. A different person introduced each group.

After the reading, the second introducer came up to me and said: All your books sold out. I’ll get it at the book fair. I enjoyed your poems so much.

I didn’t bring any books, I said. My book isn’t out yet. She said: I’m sorry. Oh right, you read those OBIT poems. Oh I love those. They are so moving. And then she kept on talking.

The conference hadn’t even started yet. I went back to my hotel room and wanted to pound my fists on something, but when I looked down, my hands had turned into flowers. I spent the rest of the night alone, watching them die.

Why bother writing when people can’t even tell us apart, I asked you. This wasn’t the first time that I had been mistaken for another Asian poet, writer, or person. When we were outside, waiting for our rides, you told K the story. In that moment, the three of us were connected in a way that we didn’t want to be.

As I got into my car and the driver said my name, I heard you talking to K about this still. I was certain I heard you talking to K about this. I’m uncertain how much longer you talked about this. I’m uncertain if K replied. I am certain this harmed you. Because I am much older than you, I am certain you will be harmed many more times in your life. I am certain you will silence yourself many more times. I am certain the driver and I moved on. We talked about the meth and heroin epidemic in the city. But I didn’t forget this woman. Her mouth filled with our words.

This week, so many friends saw me. They looked at me and knew who I was. They called my name. They touched my hands which were no longer hands. Why did I mostly remember the two white women then? Because this country is a harness for us, B. We can put it on. But other people have to take it off.

Do you know that I, too, make these mistakes? That I once called a Black woman the name of the woman sitting next to her. I was certain I was nervous. Certain I was new to the job. Certain there were twenty-five new people in the room. Certain that I had snuffed them out, erased them, exiled them. That I had harmed them, that I needed to do better.

Do you know that at the same conference, a poet of color confused an Asian American poet with another Asian American poet? When it was pointed out to her, she laughed it off. B, each confusion is a decapitation.

Why do we bother then? Do you remember what you said to me right before the woman walked by? You were telling me about form. How the form of my poems inspired your poems. We were talking about our poems. You were telling me how you were planting diamonds on the page. And then the miner came by and blew the diamonds out of our eyes. And we were again left with two black holes.

I was happy to hear that something I made helped you make something new. That moment isn’t gone. I brought it home with me. I put it on a hanger in my closet.

I don’t know if you know that Charles Simic once said: The world is beautiful but not sayable. That’s why we need art.^xxvi I think that’s why we need all art. Not just art from some people. Or whether you know what Osip Mandelstam said: What tense would you choose to live in? I want to live in the imperative of the future passive participle—in the ‘what ought to be.’^xxvii That’s where I want to live too—in the what ought to be. I don’t know where this is or what it looks like, but I know somehow it begins with language.