This post was originally published on this site
Self-Portrait with Cropped Hair
“I paint self-portraits because I am so often alone, because I am the person I know best.” —Frida Kahlo
This time, you must meet
my steadfast gaze. Watch
as I unmarry each strand
from my scalp, the scissors
a phantom limb in my grip,
metal as sharp as grief. Don’t
turn away. As a child, I was told
that a woman’s hair is her crowning
glory, but this keratin kingdom
lies limp and lifeless at the feet
of a vengeful god. My beauty,
you used to call me, taming
my hair with your fingers, held
in your eyes like an insect
pinned inside a frame. This is how
I demand to be seen: dressed
in my finest silk suit and shiniest
high heels, neither beautiful
nor yours. And when they say
What a pity, she was so pretty
once, the dark strands on the ground
will writhe in reply.
We/Us/Ours
No I in sight, lost in the heat of we. Love
littering the room like laundry, air thick
with the sound of skin slick on skin. Nightly,
we invent new languages of devotion. We make
windows of our mouths and peer inside to discover
what soft secrets are buried in the dark. We leave
no inch of flesh unloved. Kiss each other’s
kneecaps. Slide clandestine fingers into unsuspecting
belly buttons. Sink teeth into thighs with a hunger
that we’d happily let obliterate us. It’s true
the particles that comprise us can never fully meet
no matter how desperate our grasping—electrons
withheld and repelled by forces our eyes cannot
discern, but desire defies the demands
of physics. We touch like our bodies are as brief
as heaven, as though we never feared our selves
drowning in the dizzying ocean of other, limbs
tangled like seaweed, until we can no longer
tell which parts of us belong to whom.
Risk Assessment
Where did you come from?
I have spent / the currency of my body / clawing
my way out / of the blood-dark dirt /
that birthed me /
Do you know why you are here?
O nation of filth / O great gaping maw / I pledge allegiance / to your oblivion /
when I go waltzing into my grave / I will drag
you down with me
Is there a history of mental illness in your family?
call it what you must: illness / or empire /
the prognosis is the same / those unforgiving
hands / narrowing their orbit / around my neck
Have you had thoughts of hurting yourself or others?
I knuckle the knots / out of my creaky back /
harden my flesh to marble / and swallow
the cracked shards of myself / that I have meticulously chiseled away
Do you feel hopeless about the future?
does the android feel hopeless about its lack /
of consciousness, or does it simply / fulfill
its function?
Have you ever attempted suicide?
when a starfish finds itself trapped / in a predator’s
grip / it will detach its captive limb / in order
to escape / softening the connective tissue / until it drifts
onto the ocean floor / like a rotting apple /
some species can even regenerate / an entire body
from a scrap / of severed arm / guided
by stubborn instinct / a slow, bloodless miracle
Ally Ang is a self-described gaysian poet and editor based in Seattle. They are the author of Let the Moon Wobble (Alice James Books, 2025). Their work has appeared in The Rumpus and Muzzle Magazine, on Poets.org, and elsewhere. Ang has received fellowships and support from the National Endowment for the Arts, MacDowell, and Artist Trust. They cohost Other People’s Poems, a poetry open mic and reading series in Seattle. Find them at allysonang.com or @TheOceanIsGay.