You’re sleeping so soundly it feels like a sin every time I move.

By Amy Wang
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Poetry

You’re sleeping so soundly it feels like a sin every time I move.

Poetry

But the question brushes off his shoulders and I realize /
he’s not going to forgive me

Essays

With our existence contested, denied, stricken from history, it is no wonder it takes the evidence of other lives to confirm the solidity of our bodies under our fingers’ touch.

Poetry

On a dewing street I stood bare and pinned by desire.

Poetry

A bridge has landed on my doorstep & a paper is asking me to leave / behind what isn’t mine.

Poetry

I’m not apologizing / when I offer my head to the leash // of your hands

Poetry

I emerged a tether / -less, violent hiss // of becoming, staring winter / straight in the mouth.

Poetry

You desire a final frame / that suits and comforts, / a framing that supersedes / a death denied

Poetry

The other night my love turned his body to mine. This life, he said, is my heaven. 

Poetry

Q: Why the impulse to traverse old habits? / A: I believe in the refusal to explain.

Poetry

Put it to the dirt: / lullabies, hair, memories, / nails, superstition.

Poetry

Her ambient expression / in strangled lace.

Poetry

There is no rush to continue / existing but I miss you / like an early page.

Poetry

It’s no wonder / that so very few / survive / the experience of being / cast out / into the blinding light.

Poetry

When the sky is falling / you must learn to / generate a force field.

Poetry

In the gentle pull of the first light, / we hobble to stand our bodies / ours and wanting

Poetry

But a summer that begins must end. / Soon, the rains are called.

Poetry

Drink it all, / dredge the bottom for sunk honey

Poetry

Grappling with the burden of keeping a legacy alive in the face of occupation and erasure

Poetry

You’re sleeping so soundly it feels like a sin every time I move.

Poetry

Put it to the dirt: / lullabies, hair, memories, / nails, superstition.

Poetry

But the question brushes off his shoulders and I realize /
he’s not going to forgive me

Poetry

Her ambient expression / in strangled lace.

Essays

With our existence contested, denied, stricken from history, it is no wonder it takes the evidence of other lives to confirm the solidity of our bodies under our fingers’ touch.

Poetry

There is no rush to continue / existing but I miss you / like an early page.

Poetry

On a dewing street I stood bare and pinned by desire.

Poetry

It’s no wonder / that so very few / survive / the experience of being / cast out / into the blinding light.

Poetry

A bridge has landed on my doorstep & a paper is asking me to leave / behind what isn’t mine.

Poetry

When the sky is falling / you must learn to / generate a force field.

Poetry

I’m not apologizing / when I offer my head to the leash // of your hands

Poetry

In the gentle pull of the first light, / we hobble to stand our bodies / ours and wanting

Poetry

I emerged a tether / -less, violent hiss // of becoming, staring winter / straight in the mouth.

Poetry

But a summer that begins must end. / Soon, the rains are called.

Poetry

You desire a final frame / that suits and comforts, / a framing that supersedes / a death denied

Poetry

Drink it all, / dredge the bottom for sunk honey

Poetry

The other night my love turned his body to mine. This life, he said, is my heaven. 

Poetry

Q: Why the impulse to traverse old habits? / A: I believe in the refusal to explain.

Poetry

Grappling with the burden of keeping a legacy alive in the face of occupation and erasure