T s e r i n g  W a n g m o  D h o m p a

 

City of Tin

Politeness prohibits saying what I really think.
Viaduct: a code for a feeling. Like mauve,
over the street of tarmac: a grave summer day
offering clean streets and a leg longer by perspiration.
Or gannets in sight. That women are said to speak so much
of feelings; as though to clarify would mean its end.
It never is. Clarification I mean. To indicate trust I tell you
the fish is who I look at most these days. For love, for love.
Endings happen. Words I use because I like who I become.
Summer resolved of mysteries. Give me nothing. Tiny, tiny
pebbles used as prop. Tilted and tinted glasses. City
of my desires has lines rigged at the waist. One minute
of sleep at a desk might bring it all down. Words you find
under my nail. (S)wallow. Some night owl effusion.

 

Tsering Wangmo Dhompa works for a non-profit organization in SF where she
currently lives. Her work was recently featured in A.bacus and her chapbook
"Recurring Gestures" was printed by Tangram Press in SF.

 

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