angela.chang
marketing, asian concepts, inc.
twentytwo.years
columbus.ohio
lost- a father- he almost named me anger
finding- myself
hoping to be a poet when i grow up
trying to make it each day
hoping to climb out of this bell jar
by God's grace... i hope i do.
jeans.anexercise.bruise.mornings.space.reaction.half
fighting.air.mirror.south.ink.heavy.dad.knot.wonder.kite.curious
contact.march.abscond.should.joke.sketch.skirt.give.wonderland
i guess you could say it started
when you asked me to patch your jeans—
i took the pocket from my shirt
painstakingly stitched it over the hole
at the knee.
i’ve been trying to patch your holes ever since
stitching, pulling out thread,
stitching till my fingers bled
couldn’t seem to find the right fabric
couldn’t sew it on just right
but i see now, no matter how i bleed for you
patching holes can never restore what’s torn
no skill of my touch could make those jeans new
despite how much i want to—
i don’t know where those early tears came from…
they were before my time
and i can’t bring back wholeness for you
i’m pulling out the threads now
finding that i’ve somehow sewn myself in…
wishing this wouldn't hurt you
but i guess we're both attached
i tell myself it was my own carelessness
that’s causing me to bleed now…
the best i can do for you
is to stop staining your jeans
in hopes that you’d understand
that patches only go so far…
in hopes you’ll give up this pair
so worn, so tired,
trade them in for something new.
an exorcism of words
every thought put in poem
crammed emotion in phrases
let me stuff this stifled overflow
into tight-lipped verses
to be read between lines
behind metaphors and analogies
let this be an exercise
an exorcism of brokenness
perpetual purple staining my knees
mysterious blotches on my arms
i don't know why i'm so prone to this
knocking into tables and chairs
i must just be clumsy
hurting myself this way.
i wake up an hour before my alarm
to blue morning
an unexplained jolt from sleep
and always for a split second
i think you might be next to me
before i sink back into sleep.
i hate my alarm clock these days
it heralds the end of senselessness
or at least when nothing is real
it's become bitter disappointment
to face another day.
a strange phenomenon
walking through the day
can't quite seem to feel
anything
there's space around me
between my toes and the ground
supposedly the bottom's still there
i just can't feel it right now
someone told me that faith isn't a feeling
i hope that's true
i hope that's true.
moving out of response to action
motion, stillness, emotion, numbness
dissonance everywhere, disruptions
it swirls around me but i am frozen.
another morning on the brim
of falling back in or tumbling out
of this slippery-edged jar
i sit in dim silence
on the living room floor
half-awake, wishing i was still
curled up under blankets
and think to myself
that it can't possibly
always be this half-lit.
it's white-knuckled gripping
of the chair edge
carefully contained
in tight tupperwares
strained into laughter
giddiness
fighting the urge to
vomit the sweet-sick
sadness
i won't be sad, not today, not today
sometimes i wish i could hate you
but i can't, not today, not today.
it's the first time i've sat outside
on grandview avenue
there was never time enough
or maybe just not warm enough
in any case
it's not quiet
but i feel stillness
in the city hum.
i'm waiting here, silent
tired, uncertain,
hunched in the plastic chair,
realizing that i've run out
of places to reach for.
i've got a death grip
with two hands
so scared to fall back in
there's too much weight
too much...
if i let go, will i be lost?
if i let go, will you
will you really catch me?
God is the strength and portion of my heart forever.
to know what that means....
there is a story of a woman
who couldn't feel her limbs
but sat in front of a mirror
and trained her muscles to walk.
i imagine her spending yellow afternoons
seated in a wheelchair
in front of her dressing table
eyebrows furrowed
determined to puppet her arms and legs
strangers to her own body
i think i know a little of what it was like
to move without feeling
to go through motions without meaning
but i think she was on to something, that woman,
sitting in front of her mirror
to know that feeling wasn't everything
and to know that even those foreign limbs
would one day know
how to stand.
driving stretches my insides
long, flat, smooth, like the highway
watching the windows as the flatness
of ohio peaks into layers of rock
this is where glaciers pushed on
then stopped
too tired and exhausted to keep on
after passing gatlinburg
tacky quaintness stained with
the colors of tourism
i watch the road sweeping alongside the river
and think on how man tries to make order
out of the chaos he's created
but how nature and every molecule
operates in perfect order
when left unviolated
the ink from the printer
stains my hands
magenta on my fingertips
blotches of blue on my palms
it hides under the ridges of
my fingerprints
in the creases my skin
like bruises, or the water
in the cup i rinse my paintbrushes in
i've scrubbed and washed
but have resigned myself
to knowing that it will take
until all these outer layers-
microscopic skin cells-
have rubbed and scraped off.
if it were only that easy
to lose the impressions of you
that absorb deep in me.
i may carry it forever
this leaden heaviness
that anchors me deep
into cold water, thick
around my body
i can't tell if i'm clinging
or chained
but each time i come up for air
the air tastes sweeter
and i inhale in growing quantities
senses heightened to the stinging
warmth of the sun
is it worth it, this weight
this strengthening struggle
contrast of pain and joy?
to let you engulf me more thoroughly..
could it be better than
a lifetime at the surface?
in loving memory of jium-pang chang
who would be 55 today.
scattered thoughts.. too hard to care about words
memories come sharp
bowl me over at times
sometimes not even events
just knowing i miss you
just knowing what you've missed
remembering how you sacrificed for me
how you believed in me
can't contain this in words
the resigned and sharp pain
of missing you the rest of my life
losing your face and your voice
to two dimensional rectangles of paper
and spotted home videos
too private, the grief of loss
too silent
why
do i have to
be reminded
everywhere i look?
just don't
want
to
feel
anymore.
it seems to be tightening
in my chest.
i've recovered
my sense of wonder
in the vastness
of the sky today
in the continuous motion
of running
pounding of feet
it is sharply
beautiful
it's a day for kites
unexpected march warmth
all yesterday's snow melted
except for the patch
in front of the house
we tiptoe over the slush
in flip flops
coats flapping open
balmy wind a bath
to our winter skin
i comment on the strangeness
of the blue sky ending in gray
seamlessly
as i open the sunroof
we agree that it's a good day
for kites
as the car curves with the street
but today we'll just remember
it's the first of many days
like this to come
in fact, they'll be even better
even that slight encounter
somehow raises heat
a jolt of remembrance
that i've been trying
to sort away
but you're intertwined
deeply
it would appear to be another
ohio day
all muted grays and wind
if one stood still enough
you could get stuck
between wavering trees and the mud
in the sidewalk cracks
we're on the sidewalk
shuddering to the damp cold
close, and this contact
makes me wonder whether
getting stuck would really be
all that bad
there's about twenty feet
between my desk and the window
it is filmy from the warehouse smoke
that rises from below
beyond the billows of steam
are winter-dark branches
soaking in the dirty sky-
it's grey and seems to be withholding
promises of more colorful days
the tension stretching
like my spine
which slouches and arches
alternately, with indecision.
her right leg shakes like
a swing dancer beating heels
into the ground
restlessness meeting the silence
of the office
she envisions her escape,
disappearing into a crowd
at some foreign train station
cap backwards and bookbag firm
on both shoulders
arms tanner than the wood
on the desk she sits at.
that i am one of 173 chosen
out of 2100
should make me happy
but right now
the thought of sending the acceptance letter
makes me want to weep
she tells a joke:
so this girl throws her heart
into everything
"i'm going to wring life out
with all my strength."
but that heart
that rebounded each time
seemingly resilient, recoverable...
failed her.
she watched each creation crumble
and realized
there never was much meaning
behind the glory, the experience, the excitement
it all faded
"meaningless, meaningless..."
she laughed helplessly,
not seeing much point in crying anymore.
we created easily, laughingly, lovingly,
laid out the pencil marks,
filled in shadows, depths,
began to paint in the outlines,
stood back periodically to admire
the art in process.
it's left unfinished,
our beginnings,
i've tried to dust it
since i can't bring myself
to throw it away
and sometimes the pencil smudges
under my fingertips
and the paper burns me slightly
from the brief friction.
i remember this skirt
last spring
we were walking when it poured
and i watched the white dissolve
to the flower pattern and my legs
we clung and tried to escape
the thick, heavy drops
i don't remember feeling cold.
play with iambic pentameter
i can not bring myself to give
these thoughts, so heavy, willed, and strong,
like anchors buried deep within
the sand. should i release what's dear to me
for the unknown? it seems the more i give
you take, with promise dangling on a string
but i remain sunken, dashed and betrayed
by oncoming waves, rolled over, under
salt stinging. i'm tired of losing... of punches
why should i? it always just hurts more.
we lay on the grassy incline
testing different body positions
marveling at the perfection of the day
as thousands have before this very second.
i like that you point out shapes in the clouds
and i can see them immediately, and
that when you rolled over, the grass
with its endless rows of chopped tips
excited you.
we don't mention the heaviness we carry
even now
and at the moment, things are as they should be.
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