Cindy Song

Two Poems by Cindy Song



there’s a word in another language that means

           the maternal sorrow reflected in the moon’s image


on dark water: mangata. i sift through stacks &

           stacks of newspaper clippings to find your name


but the heavens are often callous with our hearts,

           stumbling mindlessly & throbbing beatlessly.


i wonder if our reflections are ever really ours,

           ever really the same when spinning or flipping


upside down rightside leftside, somersaulting across a

           shiny river, crawling along the sides of moving cars.


they are a life of their own—ripples in the lake make

           me think of time, ripples in blue fabric stretching


us open & stuffing us with loneliness until we are

           the teddy bears in our bedrooms, the discarded


reminders of a stop drop childhood. & this is where

           it all begins and ends: torn edges of your reflection


blur, toeing the ripples and gently rolling into mine.




Law of Fluidity


this is how time moves:

pill bottles rolling up wooden tables,

rain running down thin glass like

it’s chasing itself.

oranges on windowsills

casting shadows long & rounded,

breathing colors dark & sleepy like Death—

something sad / something fading.

look at the sun & see how it dips

below your line of sight,

withdrawing into itself like a

jaded turtle.

a whore caught dead in the middle

of a thunderstorm, rain going

pum pum pum.

nothing sadder / nothing more liberating