h o m e........
p a s t   i s s u e s....
s u b m i s s i o n s....
l i n k s





I was about as wanted as a pang,

the kind in which
you know you’re not wound but fang,
not nun but perve, not helping hand but ditch . . .
Thus my popularity and hyper-
marketability in the personal
arena, though that’s not my problem either.
My problem is I’m shy. My arsenal
all organic matter: entrails, birds, skulls.
Or pattern, gleam, and some weird feeling that
I get to follow duly like a devil
fish and her probe. The subject of this portrait
is neither loathsome nor appealing but
is rather pleased because I say it.–


The fuck you in me crosses the street to

avert the fuck you in you. This fuck you
subverted gnaws the hasp of my liking you
until I don’t really like you and woe
is we. The former us in me would like
to be jettisoned too or at least have
a deck to leap from. The you I knew sticks
around in spite of the editions luck
would have of me and you. My memory
is quite specific: fucking you in the
garden at night at last. Fucking you-me
Edenic with no future like the present.
A good fuck you to give fucking some love
too, looking back when it hasn’t happened yet.


To be adorable and thus worshipped 

to the world’s eight corners, all-gifted and given
to hot Prometheus’ less foxy brother who said,
“I don’t mind getting hurt,” blurting it out
and smiling like he’d earned a piece of candy.
It took me ages to get over hating
the gods who made me. In the meantime, more
mundanity: humanity prospering,
blah, blah, blah. Meanwhile, they kept shoving
that thing in front of me, moving it around
the bedroom so I’d see it upon waking:
six surfaces, all containment all the time.
“Sure as metaphor’s a whore,” said E.
I flipped my lid and changed my name to Sally.


Time to lower you into the correct

division. Ring on ring, not my design
but it is interesting. This will take
forever. Count backwards from ten. You might
feel a thing. It won’t stop hurting.
I have to find it to assess it. Not
great, but it’s what you had to work with. Like
a bean on a scale. A dried bean.
I’m writing this up for no one you know.
Yes, it’s always chaos on the seventh
floor. There are worse situations, as I
think you knew. Beyond boring or reason
or weeping treason ad infinitum.
Did you love the burning world? I did.

After Thomas Wyatt

The one one one. The one. I slept

apart from you because I felt so
pretty. Apart, apart—am I your sweet
morass? I am I am I am to you
more ass to you. Than any one! And thus,
thus, you you me. Must you must, because
thus. And thusly am I musting? Sidelong.
Because who so? Who so list to make big
so much. Baby. Are you mussing babies
along my side? Because and thus my sleep
on its assy side inside my big fuss.
Do you must? Now will you must long
me must? Who so must to make thus you
sidelong you me baby bus inside aussi. Anna Maria Hong’s poems are published and forthcoming in publications including Boston Review, jubilat, Verse Daily, The Harvard Gazette, Mandorla, No Tell Motel, and Green Mountains Review. The 2010-11 Bunting Fellow in Poetry at the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study, she has received residencies from Yaddo and Djerassi.


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