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Mai Der Vang
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“Birth coat, it won’t be long Before he re-clothes In the lit needlework of you. Clean him, cover him Toward his way to find The old ones.”
― Afterland
― Afterland
“This Heft upon Your Leaving I peel to the center for the shape of an answer to give you, for the way an answer cures in wet resin or can hook through the days toward the pendulous blink of your eye. I answer as air answering a clapper against edges of bronze before belting out an anthem of a thousand grazes, until I hear paper stones fall at your softening window. Years ago, it seemed we were loose strands swept from our ways, two vestigial selves to hide behind. Only the smell darkened when we washed our hands in a brew of cardamom and clove, and your arms blushed over me in earnest. I tell to your thick listening as the mouth to a sudden ear, to your shimmering heat as it condenses around me. Now what century fell down at your door? What cold bowl of oats did you repurpose into blessings? From the kettle tongue, take my answer as a sun-hatched shadow slipping to meet your palm inside the vapor of our moment. Take this entire autumn of waiting. Be held by the sense of an answer the way an animal can sense where the rain will fall.”
― Afterland
― Afterland
“Like the sifting ground, the scattered baleen, and this your body ancient turned upside down. Heart Swathing in Late Summer In the penumbra of an oak under sculpted Moonlight, we pile the last waking hours On our faces, breathe the wilderness of dry Heat waiting for fall ventilations. It feels Later than it is and the air is already mouthing The date for tomorrow. At least now, our eyes Can fall into the craters of a waterproof Reflection, and we stop for a moment to fill Ourselves with the kind of light that can only Be found in the dark. What is night if not for It being a repetition of unlit squares glued Jointly, plastered against the thought of midday. What is not seeing but to echolocate a name. It’s how I find your chin when I can’t sense The meaning of your hands. Weeks ago, it was Astral rebounds, shiny hinges. We harvested The fertile Perseids posed recumbent In the back of a flatbed, tallying the mineral Opulence reserved for those who wait. Not Ever so many in return. Now this moon in its Entirety has never looked so much like A distant circular kite set ablaze, doused by The kind of burning a man feels when he hears The humming of rain against a woman’s bare neck.”
― Afterland
― Afterland
Topics Mentioning This Author
| topics | posts | views | last activity | |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| Literary Fiction ...: National Book Awards Longlist Poetry 2017 | 5 | 41 | Sep 13, 2017 04:10PM | |
| Around the World ...: Nominate Our December Books of the Month | 8 | 59 | Nov 08, 2018 02:08AM | |
| Read Women: Asian American and Pacific Islander Authors | 5 | 61 | May 31, 2019 08:06PM | |
| Around the World ...: Laos | 12 | 801 | Jan 09, 2025 08:43PM | |
| Read Women: prizes and awards | 69 | 132 | Jan 15, 2025 01:56PM | |
| The Mookse and th...: * National Book Awards | 706 | 559 | 11 hours, 41 min ago |
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