Shiyang Su
When you are not here, I read that we measure the length of a horse the same way the Greeks did
Inspired by Sally Keith and Marcia Aldrich
It’s not uncommon to name distance
with a part of the body. The English foot.
Farther, the Roman pes.
In Ancient Greek, the word sight
also means god. Imagine
carrying an immensity
while walking. Sometimes,
I feel grief as very, very far.
Sometimes, it’s your body
visiting in the dark. As usual
I have a book opened in my hand, this
time an ancient travelogue, in which
autopsy is the classical way of saying I see that.
I have been here.
What is it to make room for this lexis
to approach it from both sides, the beginning
and the end?
I don’t know how to fit the dead
inside my eye, how
to keep you there.
I think of prayer
as paying attention.
Fourteen hands, I read now,
is the length of a chariot horse.
I find myself in the antique stable.
Long August night.
A man rubs his hand
against my flank,
absentmindedly. (I hadn’t asked
about love or being
possessed).
He handed over the touch
anyway. It was lost
a little to the wind.
The heat darkened my mane, my legs
spread softly. How I waited.
How I ran.
How I kept you here
You and I
were that close—
Shiyang Su is a Chinese poet and an undergrad at UChicago. Her poems can be found or are forthcoming in Frontier Poetry, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Rattle, Passages North, Diode Poetry Journal, Up the Staircase Quarterly, Chestnut Review, Puerto del Sol, Verse Daily, and elsewhere. She was nominated for Best New Poets.
Return to September 2024 Edition
Inspired by Sally Keith and Marcia Aldrich
It’s not uncommon to name distance
with a part of the body. The English foot.
Farther, the Roman pes.
In Ancient Greek, the word sight
also means god. Imagine
carrying an immensity
while walking. Sometimes,
I feel grief as very, very far.
Sometimes, it’s your body
visiting in the dark. As usual
I have a book opened in my hand, this
time an ancient travelogue, in which
autopsy is the classical way of saying I see that.
I have been here.
What is it to make room for this lexis
to approach it from both sides, the beginning
and the end?
I don’t know how to fit the dead
inside my eye, how
to keep you there.
I think of prayer
as paying attention.
Fourteen hands, I read now,
is the length of a chariot horse.
I find myself in the antique stable.
Long August night.
A man rubs his hand
against my flank,
absentmindedly. (I hadn’t asked
about love or being
possessed).
He handed over the touch
anyway. It was lost
a little to the wind.
The heat darkened my mane, my legs
spread softly. How I waited.
How I ran.
How I kept you here
You and I
were that close—
Shiyang Su is a Chinese poet and an undergrad at UChicago. Her poems can be found or are forthcoming in Frontier Poetry, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Rattle, Passages North, Diode Poetry Journal, Up the Staircase Quarterly, Chestnut Review, Puerto del Sol, Verse Daily, and elsewhere. She was nominated for Best New Poets.
Return to September 2024 Edition