Jane Wong



Everything depends on how we see each other.

My animosity is out of order, ardor.

A goat tumbling down a mountain means

how terrible your face will become

once you each the bottom. Better to shield your eyes,

better to hold your breath–

this small fog warm against my forehead.

On the news, there are people rescuing

cars in a flood. The impossibility of good deeds,

wheels pulsing through such tall trees.

I held a mirror to the moon, saw myself

in true form– an animal lapping

at your fallen horns.



The cut on my knee winks at the floor.

I have fallen asleep again, tongue out.

Me: dead raccoon of the evening, pure

ingrate. In the kitchen, seeds sprout

in milk. Fruit flies greet my knee.

What grows here? My asparagus,

my squash vines curling around

your ankles. Gratitude in the overgrowth.

You blink in blooms, yellow & mine.



No one knocks anymore.

A boar rushes in and we shout.

You speak of your death

as if today the clouds weren’t

beautiful, weren’t split into two

halves of bread to keep us

fat. The first sign of guilt?

In the morning, we sleep with our faces

covered, sleepy little death masks.

When we steal bread from a stranger’s oven,

we leave our shoes on.



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