poetry enters—
brings me flowers
and a hundred different words for them:
bloom, spring, the rise
and fall of your breaths.
comes & shows me a way in a different light.
says here are your metaphors
use them wisely,
excessively,
abundantly,
or not at all.
i listen, i write,
i turn my hands into blood
and paint the skies with
my heartache,
my falling in love,
my wars on land and beneath skin,
the sacrifices of a heritage
i am only beginning to know again.
poetry enters—
i kiss her on both cheeks
and once on the nose for good luck.
i whisper into her
i didn’t realise it was you
i was looking for all this time.
she says follow me
and then leads me into the sun,
strips me naked and
exposes hundred year old scars.
i learn to love myself
by writing love letters to every body part
i tried to shrink.
poetry enters—
tosses my bedroom wild.
teaches me how to be angry.
curls her hands over mine and says
fold your fingers and swing.
i come home with knuckles stripped bare
and life gutted right out of me.
over ice i tell her i am tired
and she sings me to sleep.
poetry enters—
wears the same skin as mine,
has the same colour hair
and speaks the same language and a half.
tells me i am your sister.
this is a good fight.
this is a good fight.
poetry enters—
is the wolf.
the moon.
the bird with a collapsed wing.
is my grandmother.
is God.
is eve before the world
wanted more from her.
is this new world.
is the old one.
is my father.
is my mother.
these hands that are both.
poetry enters—
is me
and this voice
covered in coal.
is me
and these words
rising from the chimney.
poetry enters—
sleeps in my bed
the first night we meet.
poetry enters—
stays for breakfast.
—
First published on Words Dance, April 2017
ANTHEA YANG 