Danielle Wong is the author of Bubble Fusion, a collection of poems about raising a child with autism. Her other work has appeared in journals, such as Montreal Writes, Tipton Poetry, The Daily Drunk, Kalopsia Lit, Pendemic, and The Pine Cone Review, as well as in various anthologies, including Chronicling the Days from Guernica Editions, and Resistance from the University of Regina Press. She currently is working on a picture book about a dragon who moves into a suburban part of town. She enjoys attending poetry marathons, walking in forests, listening to crickets, and hanging out with her family. Visit her at http://www.daniellewong.ca.
** ISSN 2475-1359 **
* Bilingual monthly journal published from Pittsburgh, USA :: рдкिрдЯ्рд╕рдмрд░्рдЧ рдЕрдоेрд░िрдХा рд╕े рдк्рд░рдХाрд╢िрдд рдж्рд╡ैрднाрд╖िрдХ рдоाрд╕िрдХ *
Showing posts with label Danielle Wong. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Danielle Wong. Show all posts
Danielle Wong (Towards Visibility)
I have never been able to tell a weed from a so-called decent plant.
A daisy, a dandelion, a hoard of clover grow lush; tomatoes in a garden
will never see the light of day. Few people understand it is how
I have always been. My attractions are not tuned like most,
a problem only when I am left to look after others, a delight
for those who appreciate oddities and humor and search to
make their lives brighter. It is the sad anger in other's faces, the
knowing that I have yet again destroyed all their hard work, their eye
for nurturing greens and vegetables and fruit, that hurts; and
knowing that I am a disappointment to him, and
a major disappointment to my mother, means I can never find solace
with my hands in the dirt, among ants, worms, and handicapped grasshoppers
for the life of me. At best, I can sit and watch the workers of the land
do what they do best and listen to their work songs to fill my soul.
***
SILVER FEATHERS FLUTTER
I do not remember the exact moment
I needed to find deep meaning
in the silver feather that fluttered
in front of me each time that I
would wander down the old route,
the obscure gravel road
with foxtails on either side.
The fragrant mustard would sweep
over the land, the one guarantee
I had that I was on the right path.
I created a collection made
from each silver feather. Perhaps that
is when it started. Perhaps that
is when I needed to clarify the meaning,
a personal inquiry that would shift
my thinking, not distort it, merely
highlight a more accurate reality
***
37 YEARS
Lips against lips
have long
vanished
Fingertips on hips
are ages
gone.
Conversation
is, at best,
stilted.
We're still
together.
Is that wrong?
***
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