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“I remember
the longing inside my head,
[her] beautiful letters,
mine, my fingers tracing the ridges
of consonants, questions
and postscripts littering margins,
uncontainable form, the page
a stage for candor. To know another
is the terrible work of love,
is it not?
— Jennifer Chang, from “In the Middle of My Life,” The American Poetry Review (September/October 2021, vol. 50, no.5)”
―
the longing inside my head,
[her] beautiful letters,
mine, my fingers tracing the ridges
of consonants, questions
and postscripts littering margins,
uncontainable form, the page
a stage for candor. To know another
is the terrible work of love,
is it not?
— Jennifer Chang, from “In the Middle of My Life,” The American Poetry Review (September/October 2021, vol. 50, no.5)”
―
“What
did we do those days,
stuck at home, my sons
might someday ask. We
lived
or tolerated living. We
looked away from death.”
―
did we do those days,
stuck at home, my sons
might someday ask. We
lived
or tolerated living. We
looked away from death.”
―
“Mostly, I hope for snow in winter and the fortitude to bear it. — Jennifer Chang, from “The Strangers”, Some Say the Lark. (Alice James Books; 1st edition (October 10, 2017)”
― Some Say the Lark
― Some Say the Lark
