Stella Wong

WHEN THE STILL BREATHING WATCH THE STILLBORN

after life


He was born in the year of the dog,
in the Zodiac
that means faithful,

and he is indeed full of faith.
Dogmatic, persistent
that we have

since the beginning ridden
the same wavelength
and we can go on.

One-note campaigner
and godly
lyre-player.

When I was little it was my dream to ride
a big dog like a little horse.
That was before

I was dragged around a room by my feet
with my face to the floor,
like Hector around Troy,

like laps
around a pool
and well, I never wanted to experience

that particular circle of hell
again.
He’ll find the waves

by the Golden Gate
Bridge to be holy. Speaking
of which, gottem!

What a misnomer. No gates, no gold,
just a bridge people find
it romantic to jump off of

to their deaths. No net
because the city finds it
unaesthetic.

But this isn’t about me.
It’s not either at face
value, even about you

and the waves that abuse these black rocks
that are unendingly moving, re-
ceding to the

ether from which they came. You think no one hears
the SEALs
during Hell

Week, in an exercise in excising
weakness, they line up
down in the liminal

space between sand & wave,
purgatory, flagellated—
arms linked to make a drawbridge

to drown or fend off
the naked lash’s flog.
Orpheus, I too know the song.

STELLA WONG is a poet with degrees from Harvard and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Her poems have appeared in Colorado Review, The LA Review of Books, Missouri Review, Narrative, Poetry, and Poetry Northwest. She is the author of American Zero (Two Sylvias Press) and Spooks (Saturnalia Books).