Entrance
The day my father died, I began to love
many men and I knew there would be no end.
Allow me room to breathe, my father asked
wishing that I let go of his wrists.
The man, now, in my bed rolls over and begins
to snore. The white of the walls are more white
than when I painted them. In my room I write
to believe you are living.
It’s 4:00 a.m. and no one’s awake.
I go to sleep and in a dream,
I am someone saying, Do you know
the smallest, most lovely canary can sing
the most deadly songs at night?
I can hear it loudly, tapping
outside my locked window.
Someone has hung up a painting.
Someone has provided a palette
that is come-hither blue, sunflower yellow,
warm-your-belly green peas.
A bell rings through the rain.
I wish to tell the world I’m sick to death of it.
The heart that does not wish anymore,
does not want. But it is the perception of you
that makes me mismatch my words.
Waiting for you: nests fitted into wooden trees,
my hair thrashes past me.
Spilling awake, the sound
of rain on the large sea expands.
I’m afraid one of these days,
I’ll say everything I ever wanted to say.
In my favorite corner of the world you are there, you believe me.
Tina Chang