Ang Shuang (b. 1994)
SELECTED POEMS
The Magician’s Daughter
My father was always the magician,
not I.One swift pull and the silk streamers
would spill from his mouth,flooding the floor. His shows
an impossible wonder—the chains always broke,
the cage always vanished.The canary always returned,
chirping, from the dead.Should I have known the magic
would come calling?At the paintball park I swallowed a bullet
and spat it out whole.During dinner the knife fell
through my palm, spinning—We watched, silent,
as it tumbled into the curry.After I made my cabinet escape,
Mama turned it into plywood.Said, this country is no place
for magic.Tricks do not fill empty bowls
with rice, only rabbits.You are not Houdini.
You will not come back alive.But the pennies keep turning up
under my tongue.Everything I eat tastes like rust.
All my rings have turned into links.Gingerly, I pluck the coins out
and coax them into tiny molten suns.They flood the floor with light.
by Ang Shuang
from How to Live With Yourself (2022)
