Dear Johnny, In Your Last Letter by Angela Veronica Wong


These are emotionally and physically restless poems, as if they can’t sleep or sit still or turn away from the poet’s sense of need. They run across the page in different ways, which nicely balances the consistency with which they begin.

—Bob Hicok

Boys In Uniform

ironing is my least favorite household chore
and i am not particularly good at it. my mother
says men are better at ironing—something
about having more muscle. it is christmas
day and my father is shooting at squirrels
on his roof. i spent the day watching someone
else’s children. living alone is bizarre; for dinner
i had a potato and a handful of dark chocolate
chips. yesterday i had cherries and oatmeal.
sometimes i read the words attempted acts
of terrorism
and i think: goddamn i do love those
white boys in uniforms, hair cut short, shoulders like kansas. they are dusty faces and rolled sleeves, obedient and respectful: the way i should be: but
a texas tornado that touches down, rips away
an intersection and disappears. it’s hot—that they
could just go crazy on your ass if you fucked with me.
this is not a rape fantasy. i am not prettier
than anyone else here. when i get married, i will
send his shirts out to be pressed. 

All rights reserved. Reprinted with the permission of the author.

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