Mom is waiting for you to return So what if she already went to your funeral Waiting for you while watching over us waiting for the day she won’t have to wait any longer Lights, rings, liquor, little chocolates, my sister and me— now and then she rummages through drawers, opens cupboards, light switches, little bottles, our skulls to see if we’ve been burned, caught mold, fever, rust or worms She counts us, switches us around, gets disappointed Things were nicer before, she mumbles puts us back the way we were, by alphabetical order, height, year of birth each time of course we don’t fit like before She tries us on her middle finger, her ears, palate, backbone, throat then returns us to the boxes, side by side, there in the dark— so much darkness inside me that I keep forgetting, am I a little chocolate, a wristband, or a child made of platinum or praline, and when, more or less, will I expire
Suffixes Cover the Wounds
You said they’ll get bigger so I didn’t ask again I believed that one day I’d stop being all scrunched up that one day the syllables will stretch out, become more gaping All my innards got tiny, my limbs shriveled up little eyes, little hands, little hugs, little kisses to mommy. How boring I learned just how far to go when pledging with force I measure the earth I easily calculated length times width times not too tall I said to myself they can’t not grow any bigger like the young of some fluffy animal So I waited for them to grow into something, by a centimeter, a gram, a liter, decibel, foot or degree into something obnoxious at least To move with a longer shadow, make a ruckus, to become so immeasurable I won’t have to count anymore You never told me not to wait for the diminutives
In My Family House
The vultures gathered on the balcony are sharpening their beaks and claws against the railing Hey, careful, you’ll get all rusty, who can we fear if something happens to you? They’re waiting for us to come out to devour us They want your liver, my carotids, our optic nerves and clitorises They don’t know we won’t do them that favor that we can endure locked up in here eating one another
Translator’s Note:
What immediately attracted me to the poems in Niki Chalkiadaki’s little cannibals—three of which appear in this issue of ANMLY—was the child’s voice, its originality and depth. The poems that voice articulates throughout that slender volume offer a unique perspective for modern Greek letters, and in their range and complexity, strike a stance that feels brazen even for contemporary poetry in general. So much is called into question by the seemingly—yet obviously not—innocent speaker, as the oxymoronic title suggests. A young girl struggling to figure out why and how she’s supposedly female, where her father is, why her mother won’t allow any male presence in the house (so much so that even male kittens would get eaten), why she gets everything wrong at school, why even the language she’s supposed to be learning there forces her into binary choices she can’t relate to. Why even kids’ songs and fairy tales traumatize her and threaten the small sense of self she’s managed to come up with. There were numerous challenges in unraveling the young-girl Greek of little cannibals and re-weaving it into reader-friendly English. One such challenge was the frequent references to children’s playground songs, the Greek elementary education system and Greek Orthodox rituals. But by far the most difficult was the young speaker’s reliance on and rebellion against modern Greek grammar and syntax, which she feels keeps forcing her into something she’s not, even as it—in the way she uses it—enables her to navigate the trauma, dismay and wonder of the world she finds herself in. All of which suggests that Iittle cannibals is first and foremost about survival.
With family roots from Crete, Niki Chalkiadaki was born in Trikala and studied Greek literature and linguistics at Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. She completed a Master’s in creative writing at the University of Western Macedonia in Florina and is currently working on a second Master’s in performing arts. In 2013, her debut collection on my back with fever (Mandragoras, 2012) won the best first book award at the National Symposium of Patra and was short-listed for the Greek National Award for Poetry. Her third collection little cannibals (Mandragoras, 2022)—which includes the poems translated here—explores “a tender, terrifying, animalistic space where boundaries between real and imaginary are blurred.”
Don Schofield lives in Thessaloniki, Greece. His most recent poetry collections are In Lands Imagination Favors (Dos Madres Press, 2014) and The Flow of Wonder (Kelsay Books, 2018). He is a recipient of, among other awards, the 2005 Allen Ginsberg Award (US) and the 2010 John D. Criticos Prize (UK). His poems and translations have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and the Greek National Translation Award. His memoir, From the Cyclops Cave, is just out from Open Books Press. don-schofield.com.
Class, stand at attention! Teacher, I’m here to report to you that the class size is thirty-five, three are absent, namely Kiss, Faragó, Satunyek, thirty-two are present. Class, at ease, sit down. Today’s homework was to read the state structure of the Habsburgs, up to the first paragraph on page sixty-seven. Pardon me, I apologize, Principal, please don’t be upset with me, I didn’t say hello because I didn’t see you, Principal. I’m not lying, Mom! I’m not raising my voice, just telling you that I’m not lying. I’m not yelling. I’m not talking back at all. Since the Hungarian orders couldn’t free themselves from Werbőczy’s Opus Tripartitum approach even in the 18th century, they became increasingly unfit for modern governance. Homework: 1) Characterize the important social and economic changes of the era. 2) The class structure of the feudal society after the Battle of Mohács. 3) The relationship between the Hungarian nobility and the Habsburgs. I would like to apply to the Faculty of Humanities. I will now open the general meeting. Let’s sing a marching song! Why would I like to apply to the Faculty of Humanities? I would like to apply to the Faculty of Humanities because I have wanted to be a teacher ever since I was a small child. My mother’s brother, Uncle Feri, has told me a lot about what it’s like to be a teacher, because he’s a teacher. I will begin the review and discussion of the film Fish on the Shore. The film explores the problems of modern life. The creators used the tools of realism to portray the main character. The message of the movie: We can’t give up hope even in difficult situations. What is redundant is pointless. This is a very important basic truth from one of the prominent figures of the French Enlightenment. I would have expected a secretary of a self-development group to know this. It’s part of common knowledge. (Part of common knowledge, strictly speaking.) Now, on the occasion of our high school commencement, on behalf of my peers, I would like to thank our teachers and the principal for their hard work, which we will always remember. We’re standing here at these moments, nearly moved to tears, about to enter the real world. Thank you very much for lunch, the fried chicken was delicious! Gaudeamus igitur. Kati, don’t leave, I need you! I need only you, please understand. Did I get a letter? Anna, don’t leave, I need you! Júlia, I’m waiting for your return, I miss you, and I need you! I think my entrance exam went reasonably well. Did I get a letter? I think my entrance exam went extremely well. PURPOSE OF YOUR TRIP: tourism. EXPECTED LENGTH: 14 days. WHERE: GDR. GOAL: My goal is to travel to many places and meet people. I’d like to visit the socialist German Democratic Republic because, on the one hand, I’d like to refresh my German language skills, and on the other hand, I’ve never been there. This would make an old dream of mine come true. Júlia Sós, 22/B Eötvös Street, Budapest. I’m thinking about you a lot here in Berlin. I’ll be home on the twenty-fourth. If by any chance you’ve changed your mind, give me a call, you know the number. Rose, you have a pretty name. I like everything here. Du bist schön! Doch! Write to me! Schreibe mir. I had a great time in Germany. Oh, yes, Berlin is a very interesting city. I did see it. That, too. Did anybody call me on the telephone? Did I get a letter? When did it come? From the university? Please don’t cry, Mom, not everything is lost yet. I’d like to appeal your 8195646/E order, according to which my application for admission is rejected due to lack of space, although I have achieved the required score for admission. Please take into consideration that I have wanted to be a teacher ever since I was a small child. My mother’s brother, Uncle Feri, has told me a lot about what it’s like to be a teacher, because he’s a teacher. Literature means the most to me, and I’m actively engaged in it. I’m a member of the Organization of Young Communists, and I’ve already done a lot of volunteer work. I was a member of senior management in high school. Did I get a letter? Mr. Lajos, I came here because I wasn’t admitted to university due to lack of space. We did appeal, and I thought I could ask you, Mr. Lajos, to help us. You must know someone here in the Ministry of Education who could put in a good word for me. Did anybody call me on the telephone? Uncle Feri, I’d love it if you could ask around for me. I know you have influential friends at the Department of Education, Uncle Feri. Dad, go see Mr. Jenő! Ági, may I walk you home? Mom, please don’t cry. The appeal was rejected, and that’s it. No worries, they’ll accept me next year. Something will happen. Why do I want to be a printer’s apprentice? I want to be a printer’s apprentice because I’m actively engaged in literature, and I’m interested in how a book is made, technically speaking. You’re right, Comrade Foreman, I’ll do it. I’ll fix it. Of course I have wanted to be a printer ever since I was a small child, Comrade Team Leader. Ági, come meet me in front of the printing house! Let’s go to the movies, if you also want to. Mom, may I please have twenty forints? Ten, then. I’m done, Comrade Chief Foreman. I don’t have any problems, Comrade Chief Engineer. I’m satisfied with everything. The food at the cafeteria is decent. Did I get a letter? Why would I like to be admitted to the Faculty of Political Science and Law? I’d like to go to the Faculty of Political Science and Law because I’m interested in a legal career. My father is a lawyer, and he told me a lot about legal work. I used to want to go to the Faculty of Liberal Arts and Sciences to become a teacher, but I no longer want to be a teacher. I’d rather be a lawyer. No, the reason why I didn’t apply for the second time to the Faculty of Liberal Arts and Sciences is not because I ran out of courage and was afraid of another failure. No, it wasn’t because of that. Dad, just to be on the safe side, please go see Mr. Jenő! I’m looking for the Comrade Editor in Chief. Is he in? It’s about a short story. My father went to the hospital, and I’m going to visit him today. My father got admitted to the hospital because something is wrong with his heart. I’ll definitely go in today, or tomorrow at the latest. Dad, you’ll see, you’ll be able to come home a week from now! Mom, may I have ten forints? The written and oral entrance exam went reasonably well. Did I get a letter? The entrance exam went extremely well! Truly, it did. I’m not saying this as a consolation, believe me, Dad. I’m waiting for the results. I’m sitting on pins and needles. Standing. Lying down. I got accepted! I got accepted! Viva! Hurray! I’m really happy that I can finally be a university student. Ági, don’t leave, I need you! I’m really really really happy that I can finally be a university student, but before that I still have to do eleven months of military service. I’m waiting for my draft card. I hate to wait! Did I get a letter? Hello! Yes, I’d like to talk to my mother. Mom, please be strong! We must go to the hospital right away. Mom, please don’t cry, not here, you can cry at home. Wipe your face. We cherish his memory. Did I get a letter? Comrade Sergeant, I’m here to report that no special incident occurred during my term of service. I understand. At ease, military unit. Comrade Major, I’d like to request a leave starting at the thirteenth hour on the twenty-fifth of this month until the twenty-fourth hour on the twenty-sixth. On the day of my military discharge, on behalf of my comrades, I thank our superiors for their hard work, which we will always remember. Mom, may I have a ten-forint bill? A five, then. University is completely different from high school. This is now real life, in its original form. I’m looking for the Comrade Editor in Chief. He’s not in? When will he be in? The topics to be developed for the Hungarian legal history seminar are as follows: 1) Characterize the important social and economic changes of the era. 2) The class structure of the feudal society from 1526 to 1600. 3) Rights of certain orders in Habsburg Hungary. Why would I like to be an author? I’d like to be an author, so that I can do something for the benefit of humanity. Ever since I was a small child—
Translator’s Note:
“My Redundant Sentences” is a timeless piece in which the author wishes to show readers what it felt like to be a high school student in Hungary in the late sixties. The air was heavy with clichés and slogans of socialist ideology that students despised, even when they occasionally seemed acceptable. For example, in all the classrooms, above the blackboard, there was this quote by Lenin: “Learn, learn, learn.” Students, however, identified the generation of their parents with the existing system, so the typical generational rebellion against parents was also more or less identified with the resistance against the political system of the era. It was in the wake of all this that Miklós Vámos, a high school student at the time, wrote this rebellious piece as a form of self-expression. He purposely left out harsher political slogans, yet he still couldn’t get it published in his school newspaper—it was rejected for political and ideological reasons.
Shortly afterward, when Vámos was still a high school senior and also an apprentice at a printing house, his first collection of short stories was accepted by Új Írás (New Writing, a prominent literary and arts journal founded in 1961). Coincidentally, a few months later, along with other short writings of his, “My Redundant Sentences” also got published in the same journal and has been in print ever since in various short story collections. Its publication was such a success that young actors, galvanized by a constant need to rebel against oppression, learned it and recited it at various performances, and once even on national television. Censorship conditions at the time were like a fishing net: sometimes slightly larger fish managed to get through. In “Fish on the Shore,” mentioned in this story and published in X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, Vámos alludes to this mysterious and deceiving nature of socialism.
Per the author’s admission, belonging to a younger generation that sought to think freely rather than languish in ideology was exhilarating. Young people had the courage to push back against a society that was not conducive to free thinking and human flourishing. It would of course be another two decades before the fall of the Iron Curtain.
With its parodic style, “My Redundant Sentences” offered a fitting and clever way to criticize the then socialist regime that ruled with an iron fist and created an environment steeped in poverty and authoritarian control. Unfortunately, this sensitive topic remains a relatable and somewhat universal theme that resonates across time, language, and culture. The story starts off with the mandatory reporting to the teacher by the hetes, who was responsible for noting attendance, keeping the blackboard clean, and handling other mundane chores for a week. Everyday struggles and tough choices about professions or higher educational institutions (many of which often didn’t let students in for political reasons) are all molded into this short piece, sprinkled with micro travelogues, references to fleeting romances, and attempts at finding loopholes in the system. Readers are given insight into the year during which the protagonist faces numerous difficulties and is in constant turmoil over his decisions. The recurring question “Did I get a letter?” represents one of those academic pressure points. Overall, each seemingly simple and repetitious sentence conveys an underlying anxiety about hopes and dreams for the future under the banner of socialism.
As I reflect on translating this piece, it becomes increasingly obvious that there is more to the story than meets the eye. In addition to keeping this dense narrative simple and concise, I particularly enjoyed rendering the old-fashioned honorifics into English. The word “comrade” was added to nearly every title back then. “Comrade Chief Editor” and the like admittedly sound a bit dusty and ironically redundant, but their use was standard practice.
Miklós Vámos is a Hungarian writer who has had over forty books published, many of them in multiple languages. His most successful book is The Book of Fathers, which has been translated into nearly thirty languages. Vámos’s ancestors on his father’s side were Jews who perished in the Holocaust. Fortunately, his father, a member of a penitentiary march battalion, survived. In an effort to save himself from his chaotic heritage, he turned to writing novels. His selected writings have appeared in various publications, including Asymptote, theForward, Hungarian Literature Online, The New York Times, and Tablet.
Ági Bori originally hails from Hungary, and she has lived in the United States for more than thirty years. In addition to translating between Hungarian and English, her favorite avocation is reading Russian short stories in the original. Her translations and writings are available or forthcoming in 3:AM, Apofenie, Asymptote, The Baffler, B O D Y, the Forward, Hopscotch Translation, Hungarian Literature Online, Litro Magazine, Maudlin House, The Rumpus, Tablet, Trafika Europe, Turkoslavia, and elsewhere. She is a translation editor at the Los Angeles Review.
Cigarette lady spits out fornicated weeds How we wished to be umbras, settling for the icelipped things of wonder my mouth a sex cavern My body an engine of trapped space
I will not smoke Americans until my teeth yellow black lantern sky Yes the vinyl hour yes the ripped cellophane lines I skim profane sometimes against my will yet spill out empty tires I could sleep in set motions In this inert climate, nothing ever engenders smooth futures unless opioidic Eden is all we have Dead grass leathered into street pilots with their little flags guiding the machines to the workabyss
I sing away the bleak in labored blisses do you know of The gridded empires that spirit us into fractured notes in buckling silence Stained global meridians of a tobacco sunset we surf like radio waves
Telemetry, telomeres, an endless interior waltz prone to imperial occupation Will you claim dirtmind if that is what you are given
One day I will no longer rain weak And the Earth will be spectral enough to burrow into new ways of waiting Rejecting deferrals my cockpoisoned self somewhat less mismatched in this iteration With tunneled eyes to see metal disintegrate into the vision of a loosened inmate contemplating data Like minutemiracles to cherish until they explode, I then Will know what those wed to the moon speak when they are right
Bryana Dawkins is a writer based in NYC. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Brink Literary Journal, Apocalypse Confidential, the engine(idling, and elsewhere. She can be found at bryana-dawkins.carrd.co.
Back in October I found her between tightly stacked shops, on a cobblestone street,
the smell of myrrh + old paper piercing through the thick scent of London rain.
Venus, cast in wax- not just soft, observant. A goddess for my altar (not for their bed).
As I light her, I touch my hips- unshrinkable.
With each breath they stretch demand space; no apology.
My belly, soft not hard, spills out of denim like rivers that refuse to be contained.
My breasts looking like hoses- I watered garden after garden none of them bloomed (for me).
Now withered. Still they try to suck the spring of another Venus dry.
My double chin: a layer of love I wore too long, tucked beneath smiles.
It tells the story: I bent. Until my spine broke. Yet I am not in ruins.
They mistake softness for surrender- but Venus does not bow. She burns.
I rise from melted wax, each curve a rebellion.
Witness me: not what’s left- what stays.
Unshrinkable. Unashamed. Divine.
I Was Never Meant to be Tamed
velvet night my mouth tastes of burned sage & deliberate sin. purple ink spills ancestral pain, coiled like dna deep within. in the past i bore many names – now call me witch before anything else. barefoot, i dance on broken vows, transmuting lead into gold. this body – a portrait: time cracked the frame, sketched in stillness, now erased in motion. she who shapes, she who tears, she who mends – or none of it at all. you were never meant to be tamed.
Vanessa Rose is a neurodivergent, bilingual poet based in Germany with deep U.S. American roots. Her work explores themes of self-empowerment, body politics and transformation through a witchy, feminist lens. Drawing from personal experience and the archetypal power of the feminine, she crafts vivid imagery that challenges societal expectations of beauty and identity. Her poetry blends raw emotion with striking, often provocative metaphors, creating space where vulnerability meets rebellion. When she’s not writing, Vanessa enjoys playing video games and spending time with her rescue cats.
When I hide my face in the crook of your neck, my index finger rests between our bodies; my fingertips graze your freckled chest, the back of my nail touches my lips. And I wonder if you have thought of your wife tonight. I love your wife, have even fucked her, and watched her come with your fingers still inside me. But when you say I love your little moans, I hope you mean I love you. Once, you bit my neck and I pretended you did it so no other man would. And I wonder if you have thought about meeting me first, me being your high school sweetheart, me carrying your babies. God, I do love your wife and I even love your children. But when you say I want to keep fucking you, I hope you mean I want to keep you. And when you fuck me, I wonder if you could love me, too. If you wish we did not have to play pretend, if you have ever longed to stay for the night.
Born and raised in México, Sandra Dolores Gómez Amador is a poet, editor, and scholar. She holds an MFA from the University of Tennessee. Her work has been supported by Community of Writers, Tin House, and Letras Latinas, among others. Sandra is currently a PhD student in English, a reader for Only Poems, and a Tin House 25-26 Reading Fellow. Learn more about her writing on sandradolores.com.
I was told I was born with restive demons in my blood.
One morning in June, my grandma, wilting like a sinking sun,
gathered my friends as oracles to the part of my body
where there are afflictions. For several days I watched her
place peeled stems in the purity of their palms,
and as a child, I believed the sweetness from sugarcanes
would supply a weeping wound with proteins,
seal it off, as a ritual must.
But there is merely a trick for recovery, because
why does a rite meant to heal only deepen the torment?
The gods, after nourishing them,
surprisingly antagonistic. They fed on our offerings,
their stool firmed, then parted softly, while I went on with bleeding.
Did they not see— my jutted joints, my unsealed cuts,
my heart, near moribund— at the ritual ground?
Hassan A. Usman (he/him), NGP II, a person living with Haemophilia, is a graduate of Counselling Education at the University of Ilorin. He is an award-winning writer and adjudicator, and a celebrated public speaker. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in Electric Literature, Consequence Forum, Blue Route Journal, Blue Marble Review, Isele Magazine, Kissing Dynamite, The Shallow Tales Review, Lunaris Review, Afrocritik, Five South, Icefloe Press, Paper Lanterns, trampset, Poetrycolumn-NND, and elsewhere. He’s an alumnus of the SprinNG Writing Fellowship 2022. Hassan is currently interning as a Business Development Executive, enjoys cooking, listening to Afrobeats, and models part-time.
They say grief is the wound that festers the heart. But I’m only a puddle, rippled without cause;
A vagabond watching his prime tick off from the face of a rusting Tissot. You cannot blame me—
I consulted the compass and it, too, gave no coordinates after roving endlessly. In my gut, I harbour misery like
a symbiote. I cannot yell; I cannot cry—I can only ransom myself with deep breaths that pass for sighs.
You might mistake this poem for a track off a sad girl’s Spotify playlist, but it is only a self-portrait.
The [F/H]ood [Chain]
“Can’t be hospital– The life that we live is so hostile” – Central Cee, Up North.
Every lip clutching a lit cigarette, every pale face— eyes bloodshot with brute—hosts hope and despair like symbiotes, leaving it to morph into a ragged resolve.
It becomes a force, pushing stilettos and monk straps to keep striding Awolowo Way, urging urchins sheltered beneath Ikeja bridge to stay hard, hoarse throats not to quit on passengers, basin-laden heads to keep hustling through this labyrinth of a hood.
Here, there are no green pastures; greedy Caesar razed them all. Even dreams feels Sisyphean. So, it’s off with honest living and scavenge like a black-backed jackal.
This is the tale of all nickers lurking in the crevices of Kodesoh, of the four àgbàyàs who took my Nokia C21 Plus and patted my back with a dagger.
Ask around, they’ll call this hood a hustle kingdom, but I see a biological field, reducing its populace to a food chain: producers and consumers.
Olaore Durodola-Oloto is a writer from Lagos, Nigeria, whose writing is shaped by deep introspection. His works appear or are forthcoming in Brittle Paper, Kalahari Review, OtB Poetry, Blue Flame Review, Anthropocene Poetry, The Crossroads Review, ANMLY, and elsewhere. He won the Lagos Poem Project 2024, organized by Urban Word NYC, and was shortlisted for the Bridgette James Annual Poetry Competition. A SprinNG ’25 Fellow, Olaore continues to explore themes of identity, memory, and transformation in his work, drawing from personal and collective histories to craft resonant literary experiences. Find him on X @olaore_philip and IG @iam.colossus.
We commute seamlessly, callous to our suffocating borders. With a single flick of the wrist—thousands are transferred flauntingly, but never donated altruistically. Fawning over the newest transient novelty (you’ll throw it out in a week), we ravage to declare, ‘I bought that yesterday right before it was sold out everywhere’— without sparing a thought for the naked or the climate clock.
Their vivacious nature blankets this wonderful *little red dot with performative patriotism, and sheer apathy. Their materialistic vices boost the economy, just not that of the needy. Their hunger for (loud) victory brings about amiable competition and sportsmanship, and starves unfortunate bodies while dehydrating the seas of this Earth.
I adore this transitional town. I devote my life to it. I will never let my nurtured beliefs falter. I love this makeshift motherland. (and you’ll succumb to its rulers)
*little red dot: a nickname often used in the media and in casual conversation to refer to Singapore.
Alanna Tan is a 15-year-old student poet from Singapore. Her work explores human complexity and the politics of perception. Alanna is currently preparing for her O-Level examinations while submitting to journals at 3a.m. She hopes to keep bending language until it bleeds what the soul cannot.
Snorkelling on the Great Barrier Reef the first time I used a tampon
I remember staring down the archipelago of blood spots in the hotel bathroom, the night before we caught the boat to Green Island. My mother hovered outside the door, rattling a box of tampons stacked like bleached staghorn, repeating the generational myth of shark attacks. Then, dreams of being left on the sand to burn up like a gift shop starfish, the unthinkable driftwood of my body beached and baking. The next day, I waddled backwards into the water, green fins slapping, part fish, part woman, uneasy siren. At first, I felt skewered by the cotton spear sitting below my cervix, but slipping out beyond the jetty, the knot of discomfort slowly ceased. Mask snug, I peered down at alien continents of coral, like an astronaut through a shuttle window. As the landscape came into focus, there was the rush of the familiar: curves of rock, the womb of cave with foetal eel, anemones clotting beneath the pubic curls of seagrass. The reef was a woman, vibrating with life. My body was her shadow on the surface, our salts mingled, thighs waving.
Bex Hainsworth is a poet and teacher based in Leicester, UK. She won the Collection HQ Prize as part of the East Riding Festival of Words and her work has appeared in Nimrod, The McNeese Review, Sonora Review, and trampset. Walrussey, her debut pamphlet of ecopoetry, is published by Black Cat Poetry Press.
Poem Beginning with You and Ending with Everything
You give me the last raspberry from your garden, a tiny burst of sweetness that fits on the pad of my pinky finger. You offer me the softest parts of your body to sink my teeth into when I’m overcome with wanting. You call my pharmacy and get my meds refilled when I’m too despondent to dial the phone. I come over and wash the stack of cups and bowls that have accumulated into a small mountain on your bedside table. I give you my blood in a heart shaped vial to wear around your neck. You study how I make my coffee, how I like to be touched, curtail your urge to devour, unthinking, and learn instead to coax pleasure from my strange and particular body. We no longer speak, but when I fall ill, I still make tea the way you taught me: ginger and honey with a clove of garlic and a dash of hot sauce to clear the sinuses. We no longer speak, but I’m made up of a million gestures, touches, turns of phrase that I learned from you, every you I’ve ever loved, whose sweaters I’ve wept and wiped my nose on, whose art I’ve hung on my walls and letters I keep in a box beneath my altar, whose loved shaped me into myself. I still don’t know how to let love lay me bare beneath its probing gaze without apologizing for my body’s failures: when I bleed through my pants and underwear and stain the couch with a puddle of blood as dark as rain-soaked asphalt, you scrub the cushions clean before I can say a word, knowing I’d never ask. When I’m so constipated I can barely move without groaning out my agonies like a creaky, rust-coated pipe, you make me soup with sweet potato and lentils to soften my stools. So this is it, I marvel every time I am undone by another disgusting display of devotion. This is what love asks of me: to accept every gesture of care no matter how humiliating it feels, to let myself be witnessed in all my unkempt, abject, leaky, embarrassing glory. I try to be precise and contained, to fit myself into brief, neat stanzas, but love makes me unwieldy, long- winded. Love writes lines that spill over the page. Love doesn’t care about show-don’t-tell or the flimsiness of adverbs; it wants me to tell anyone who will listen how dazzlingly, frustratingly, terrifyingly, mundanely, devastatingly, blessedly, earth-shatteringly, ass-shakingly, world-makingly it fills me. I used to think I needed to sand my prickly edges smooth, to temper my too-muchness and restrain my terrible need, but every day, love takes my face in its hands and asks, Who are you without performance? while I stare back as blank as a Word doc the night before a deadline. I wish I could cast off this straitjacket of my own making. I wish I could say what I mean without cloaking myself in metaphor. I wish I could stand before you and let my body be nothing but a body, no pretense or artifice, a night sky unblemished by stars. Love, by which I mean God, by which I mean the universe, by which I mean you, let me be as unabashed as the single long, coarse hair curling up from your toe knuckle. Let me revel in the excess, ecstasy, echo, expanse, romance, fervor, horror, pleasure, prayer, play, swell, spill, shine, divine, thrill, heat, wet, want, mess, miraculous, nameless, vivid, agonizing everything.
Ally Ang is a gaysian poet & editor based in Seattle. Their debut poetry collection, Let the Moon Wobble, is forthcoming from Alice James Books in November 2025. Find them at allysonang.com or @TheOceanIsGay.
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