Ang Shuang (b. 1994)

SELECTED POEMS

arts poetica

Today someone told me
if everything is poetry then nothing is. 

If nothing is poetry then what of
this filament of sunlight? 

What of the small miracle
that in my mother’s language 

there exists a word for
this veil of soft rain? 

I confess I am not a poet—
the words sing their own way out 

of my throat like blue
returning to sky 

& I am only here
to hold the microphone— 

Oh, I am not a poet but I want to believe
there is a poem in everything 

that one word can kiss another
until a poem falls from their mouths 

like chipped paint or first snow.
I am not a poet but I want you to know: 

For years I slept in a bunk bed
beneath my sister’s & after every fight 

she would climb down on a rope
of darkness & plant a palm 

over my chest just to make sure
I was still breathing & oh 

I swear if that isn’t a poem
then I don’t need poetry.

by Ang Shuang
from How to Live With Yourself (2022)

 

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