2 Poems | Ally Ang

The Walk Home

I never learned how to get home safe.
My only instinct is to fight back
to walk with my hands curled into weapons
teeth sharpened
ready for attack.
On most streets, I am an object of curiosity:
tall girl, thick thighs, olive skin, too loud, strong willed, belonging nowhere
belonging nowhere.
They try to possess me
but I cannot be silenced
will not swallow my tongue
from shouting back at the men
who attempt to lay claim to me
who regard my body as public property
theirs for the taking.
Do not tell me about the danger.
I am all earth and ash and gasoline
eager to become flame.
Do not tell me about the danger.
I was born to a home filled with ghosts
and I am still digging up dead things
with every step.
Do not tell me about the danger.
I walk home alone at night
holding shards of glass in my hands
ready to fight back.
You do not threaten me.
I know nothing of mercy.
I do not know how to be gentle.
I only know how to devour.



White: that which is good

Melanin: that which separates one
from whiteness.

Exotic: what white boys call you when they love you in secret
but won’t take you home to their mothers.

Grief: the loss that cannot be named in this language
the loss that brings me to my knees.

Poetry: the only way I can speak
with my ancestors’ mouths.

Ally Ang is a queer poet of color from New England. Ally’s talents include making excellent grilled cheese, getting into Facebook fights with racist acquaintances, and leaving lipstick stains on mugs and people.

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