Shuang Ang’s “American Lessons,” read by the poet. Part of a brief selection of poetry from Epiphany’s Fall/ Winter 2019 issue.

Soaping up hairy legs is like bathing horses. With my fingers on the foamy plush of my calf, I remember my grandfather Alberto’s horses."

The other day, the tyrant said, hate has
no place in our country, while naming the
wrong city where the tragedy occurred,
and I thought: Is man no more than this.

Should I pretend
the desire was new? The list of girls I still
want to be is mental.

Careful not to curse him with my
scent, I unravel the vine.
He does not scurry off.

Inside, perfect / strangers shed their day / a hull of amber—
shadow puppets / empty armchairs / set tables / curtains split
to comfort / life
without a hole inside it.  

Ah, all those days that flowed
through my sorrows and anxieties!
In my country at this moment
another writer is experiencing them too.
Don't be afraid, my friend.

When he laughs, there is so much
of him—multiple pieces: and, of, or, if. What are our names?

A lover who doesn’t eat has lost control of my hands. So has the moon. / And I’ve lost control of my money. I call that grief.