#after preparing the altar the ghosts feast feverishly

[whisperthatruns]

After Preparing the Altar, the Ghosts Feast Feverishly

How hard it is to sleep in the middle of a life. — Audre Lorde

We wake in the middle of a life,                    hungry. We smear durian            along our mouths, sing soft death a lullaby. Carcass breath, eros of  licked fingers and the finest perfume. What is love if  not         rot? We wear the fruit’s hull as a spiked crown, grinning in green armor.   Death to the grub, fat in his milky shuffle! Death to the lawlessness       of dirt! Death to mud and its false chocolate!   To the bloated sun we want to slice open and yolk                      all over the village. We want a sun-drenched           slug feast, an omelet loosening its folds like hot Jell-O. We want the marbled fat of steak and all        its swirling pink galaxies. We want the drool, the gnash, the pluck of each corn kernel, raw and summer                   swell. Tears welling up                     oil. Order up! Pickled cucumbers piled like logs for a fire, like fat limbs we pepper and succulent                in. Order up: shrimp chips curling in a porcelain bowl like subway seats. Grapes peeled from bitter bark — almost translucent, like eyes we would rather see. Little girl, what do you leave, leaven              in your sight? Death to the open eyes of  the dying. Here,           there are so many open eyes we can’t close each one.          No, we did not say the steamed eye of a fish. No eyelids fluttering like no butterfly wings. No purple yam lips. We said eyes. Still and resolute as a heartbreaker.         Does this break your heart?                                      Look, we don’t want to be rude, but seconds, please. Want: globes of oranges swallowed whole like a basketball or Mars or whatever planet is the most delicious.                   Slather Saturn! Ferment Mercury! Lap up its film of dust, yuk sung! Seconds, thirds, fourths! Meat wool! A bouquet of chicken feet! A garden of                   melons, monstrous in their bulge!               Prune back nothing. We purr in this garden. We comb through berries and come out so blue. Little girl,                            lasso tofu, the rope slicing its belly clean. Deep fry a cloud so it tastes like bitter gourd or your father leaving — the exhaust of his car, charred. Serenade a snake and slither its tongue into yours and                           bite. Love! What is love if  not knotted in garlic? Child, we move through graves like eels, delicious         with our heads first, our mouths agape. Our teeth:         little needles to stitch a factory of everything made in China.      You ask: Are you hungry? Hunger eats through the air like ozone. You ask: What does it mean to be rootless? Roots are good to use as toothpicks. You: How can you wake in the middle of a life? We shut and open our eyes like the sun shining on tossed pennies in a forgotten well. Bald copper, blood. Yu choy bolts                  into roses down here. While you were sleeping, we woke to the old leaves of  your backyard shed and ate that and one of your lost flip-flops too. In a future life, we saw rats overtake a supermarket with so much milk, we turned opaque. We wake to something boiling. We wake to wash dirt from lettuce, to blossom into your face. Aphids along the lashes. Little girl, don’t forget              to take care of  the chickens, squawking in their mess and stench. Did our mouths buckle                                at the sight of  you devouring slice                after slice of  pizza and the greasy box too? Does this frontier swoon for you? It’s time to wake up. Wake the tapeworm who loves his home. Wake the ants,                  let them do-si-do a spoonful of  peanut butter. Tell us, little girl, are you hungry, awake,                               astonished enough?

Jane Wong, How to Not Be Afraid of Everything (Alice James Books, 2021)

[femmewulf]

thinking about karna solara

After Preparing the Altar, the Ghosts Feast Feverishly by Jane Wong

The Ravening War 1.06

[journalofsolitude]

After Preparing the Altar, the Ghosts Feast Feverishly

BY JANE WONG

[liminal-man]

"We wake in the middle of a life,                     hungry." — Jane Wong, from “After Preparing the Altar, the Ghosts Feast Feverishly” (Poetry Foundation)

[bossymarmalade]

Jane Wong, “After Preparing the Altar, the Ghosts Feast Feverishly” (2019)

[poetryfoundation-potd]

After Preparing the Altar, the Ghosts Feast Feverishly

By Jane Wong

How hard it is to sleep

in the middle of a life.

— Audre Lorde

We wake in the middle of a life,                    hungry.

We smear durian            along our mouths, sing soft

death a lullaby. Carcass breath, eros of  licked fingers

and the finest perfume. What is love if  not         rot?

We wear the fruit’s hull as a spiked crown, grinning

in green armor.   Death to the grub, fat in his milky

shuffle! Death to the lawlessness       of dirt! Death

to mud and its false chocolate!   To the bloated sun

we want to slice open and yolk                      all over

the village. We want a sun-drenched           slug feast,

an omelet loosening its folds like hot Jell-O. We want

the marbled fat of steak and all        its swirling pink

galaxies. We want the drool, the gnash, the pluck of

each corn kernel, raw and summer                   swell.

Tears welling up                     oil. Order up! Pickled

cucumbers piled like logs for a fire, like fat limbs we

pepper and succulent                in. Order up: shrimp

chips curling in a porcelain bowl like subway seats.

Grapes peeled from bitter bark — almost translucent,

like eyes we would rather see. Little girl, what do you

leave, leaven              in your sight? Death to the open

eyes of  the dying. Here,           there are so many open

eyes we can’t close each one.          No, we did not say

the steamed eye of a fish. No eyelids fluttering like

no butterfly wings. No purple yam lips. We said eyes.

Still and resolute as a heartbreaker.         Does this break

your heart?                                      Look, we don’t want

to be rude, but seconds, please. Want: globes of oranges

swallowed whole like a basketball or Mars or whatever

planet is the most delicious.                   Slather Saturn!

Ferment Mercury! Lap up its film of dust, yuk sung!

Seconds, thirds, fourths! Meat wool! A bouquet of

chicken feet! A garden of                   melons, monstrous

in their bulge!               Prune back nothing. We purr

in this garden. We comb through berries and come out

so blue. Little girl,                            lasso tofu, the rope

slicing its belly clean. Deep fry a cloud so it tastes like

bitter gourd or your father leaving — the exhaust of

his car, charred. Serenade a snake and slither its tongue

into yours and                           bite. Love! What is love

if  not knotted in garlic? Child, we move through graves

like eels, delicious         with our heads first, our mouths

agape. Our teeth:         little needles to stitch a factory of

everything made in China.      You ask: Are you hungry?

Hunger eats through the air like ozone. You ask: What

does it mean to be rootless? Roots are good to use as

toothpicks. You: How can you wake in the middle of

a life? We shut and open our eyes like the sun shining

on tossed pennies in a forgotten well. Bald copper,

blood. Yu choy bolts                  into roses down here.

While you were sleeping, we woke to the old leaves

of  your backyard shed and ate that and one of your

lost flip-flops too. In a future life, we saw rats overtake

a supermarket with so much milk, we turned opaque.

We wake to something boiling. We wake to wash dirt

from lettuce, to blossom into your face. Aphids along

the lashes. Little girl, don’t forget              to take care

of  the chickens, squawking in their mess and stench.

Did our mouths buckle                                at the sight

of  you devouring slice                after slice of  pizza and

the greasy box too? Does this frontier swoon for you?

It’s time to wake up. Wake the tapeworm who loves

his home. Wake the ants,                  let them do-si-do

a spoonful of  peanut butter. Tell us, little girl, are you

hungry, awake,                               astonished enough?

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/video/151643/jane-wong-reads-after-preparing-the-altar-the-ghosts-feast-feverishly

Audio available

[godsopenwound]

— Jane Wong, After Preparing the Altar, the Ghosts Feast Feverishly

[sinetheta]

We wake in the middle of a life,              hungry. We smear durian     along our mouths, sing soft death a lullaby. Carcass breath, eros of  licked fingers and the finest perfume. What is love if  not            rot?

After Preparing the Altar, the Ghosts Feast Feverishly by Jane Wong. 2018.

Jane Wong is a poet and professor currently based in Tacoma, Washington, USA. A former U.S. Fullbright Fellow and Kundiman Fellow, their poems have appeared in journals such as Pleidas, The Volta, Third Coast, as well as featuring in The Arcadia Project: North American Postmodern Pastoral. Wong has published three chapbooks and published her first collection of poetry, OVERPOUR, in 2016. 

 In After Preparing the Alter, Wong continues to articulate her interest in the concept of “haunting” in Asian American poetry. She considers the ways in which history impacts the work of Asian American poetry and thus how “language acts as a haunting space of interventionism and activism”. In invoking the image of the hungry ghost (餓鬼), Wong interrogates the bounds of corporeality and its ramifications for Asian and Asian American identity through the medium of food.

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[dk-thrive]

We wake in the middle of a life,                     hungry.

Jane Wong, from “After Preparing the Altar, the Ghosts Feast Feverishly” (Poetry Foundation)

[achillean-heartbeat]

—Jane Wong, "After Preparing the Altar, the Ghosts Feast Feverishly" , published in Poetry November 2018 magazine

[text ID: "Death to mud and its false chocolate!"]

[noodledesk]

We wake in the middle of a life,                    hungry.

We smear durian            along our mouths, sing soft

death a lullaby. Carcass breath, eros of  licked fingers

and the finest perfume. What is love if  not         rot?

After Preparing the Altar, the Ghosts Feast Feverishly BY JANE WONG

[femmewulf]

After Preparing the Altar, The Ghosts Feast Feverishly by Jane Wong // Litany with Blood All Over by Danez Smith // Strangers by Ethel Cain // To The End by My Chemical Romance

[journalofsolitude]

After Preparing the Altar, the Ghosts Feast Feverishly

BY JANE WONG

[a-toad-set-in-emeralds]

What is love

if  not knotted in garlic? Child, we move through graves like eels, delicious with our heads first, our mouths agape. Our teeth: little needles to stitch a factory of everything made in China. You ask: Are you hungry?

After Preparing the Altar, the Ghosts Feast Feverishly

BY JANE WONG

[bostonpoetryslam]

We wake in the middle of a life,                    hungry. We smear durian            along our mouths, sing soft death a lullaby. Carcass breath, eros of  licked fingers and the finest perfume. What is love if  not         rot?

Jane Wong, “After Preparing the Altar, the Ghosts Feast Feverishly,” via the Poetry Foundation

[floresenelatico]

Jane Wong’s exhibition After Preparing the Altar, the Ghosts Feast Feverishly.

https://hyperallergic.com/513670/jane-wong-after-preparing-the-altar-frye-art-museum/