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Tina Chang
POETRY
                                                                             Audio Provided by From the Fishouse
 

Strange God,



I can feel your hand moving darkly
        and then brightly over the plain.         Twitching.

Darkness falls down
deep into the well where I take my clean water.

                        And the shelter was wood.
It was always there, high beamed and hiding me. It was dripping,
canopied.


Where was that stairwell that led up?   Where was
            that furnace that burned the face of a picture
of a father and a daughter in the snow?         The frost
            melted inches from me. The mouths shining through the silver.


Strange God, I will get my way one day. Because there is an avalanche
            hesitating
                    before the crush.   Because
this car drives away from the land. The mirror, a view of the rear, leading away.

I turned to the furnace whose opening            looked to me
            and I returned its stare
which spoke loss, spoke departure
    
                        then arrival.

The crow flying over the green lawn is not an omen
        but a force of opposites, my longing moving along in degrees.

                        Back in the city
when you touched me, water fell out of a faucet         and filled
        a glass that sat under the opening.

Father + Strange God, over the rooftop the cardinals are dressed in fog.

The birds have been rummaging in my breast bone
hard at work, searching for meat.

God + Father, my friend brought a meal,
    a chicken cooked and steaming, to a woman who had nothing.
The woman took the chicken
        and cracked the chest in half with her broad hands

with no effort, just need.

 


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