RE: Glass Rooster
By Arlene Ang


I’ve reached Los Angeles. Now where is it?¹ I wrapped it in yesterday’s headlines. Somewhere there’s a war written in another language.² A lesson on safe distances. Or gin and tonic.³ No, I put it among the socks. Stashed among the argyle and ribbing, it composed a mirage.⁴ For example, the human heart in a jar. The whole time I knew it belonged in a museum. The things we break.⁵ I left waving at people who thought I was saying hello. I’ve kept up the image ever since.⁶ Whether in the same silence as the suitcase or taken for a ride outside the city,⁷ if I’m writing you, I’m lost already.

*         *         *

[ 1] In a dream, previously, the mouth was eating the maggots eating the apple. This is the only souvenir.

[ 2] On closer inspection, the self always appears in the past (tense). As in, I was there. I saved the bird until it died then replaced it with another bird until that too died. It (oneself) wasn’t about a love for birds, but the need to find substitutes for birds.

[ 3] 1979 - 1993. How easily the glass contains the thirst.

[ 4] In this childhood, the hammer that was thrown at the rooster didn’t hit the rooster. In this box, the green chick outlived the gunshot. In this small dish, spicy chicken feet only a mother could love.

[ 5] We’ve never known our own strength.

[ 6] The body was created to survive the mind; the bleeding wound is a healthy wound.

[ 7] The loudest sound a glass rooster makes is when it hits the ground.

Arlene Ang is the author of four poetry collections, the most recent being a collaborative work with Valerie Fox, Bundles of Letters Including A, V and Epsilon (Texture Press, 2008). She lives in Spinea, Italy where she serves as staff editor for The Pedestal Magazine and Press 1. More of her work may be viewed at www.leafscape.org.

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