Ang Shuang (b. 1994)
SELECTED POEMS
How Do I Live with Myself?
Not the metaphorical hooks of the problem,
but the tender meat swinging at its edge:
how to wake up every morning & climb
into my own body.
I mean,
I grew up leashed
to the sturdy slash of the equator.
What did I know about Spring?
How it circles around, year after year,
to hold the brittle bones of Winter?
*
When I dream
I am no longer ghost.
I am a tender hook
of hangnail. A warm body
asleep in the arms
of a burning building.
I am a small pebble
inside a shoe. A soft
landing of yesterday's
remains. A home
full of bees,
shuddering.
*
I do it without thinking,
most days. Myself & I
brush our teeth watching
ourselves watch Netflix
in the mirror.
I fold myself into bed
& we dream in the same
single smear of color,
usually blue. Sometimes
it's us wading
through the tall arms of lalang,
their heads nodding against
our knees, our shadows
moving slow as a sigh
over the field.
*
So maybe I am both
the mimosa & the flat palm
over it — both the leaves
drawing shut & the burrowing
heat of something like Summer.
The open window with a finger
skirting its sill,
sipping sunlight.
Maybe tomorrow
I wake up inside myself
& do not ask to be beside.
by Ang Shuang
from How to Live With Yourself (2022)
