Miranda Tsang grew up in San Francisco. She currently teaches writing as a Gluck Fellow while in the MFA program at UC Riverside. Tsang has received support from Community of Writers at Squaw Valley, Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, and Kearny Street Workshop. Her writing is published or forthcoming in Lumen, The Offing, and the HYSTERIA anthology. She is the Poetry Editor at SARR. She enjoys playing mahjong.
San Francisco, 2016
Is there someone curating what follows:
after what makes a woman,how to make gnocchi.
Welcome to my Daydreams Massage Therapy Boutique!
Here’s my Marco Canora, the rejections of women writers,
take this lunar E-clips hair pin set, hands
onto legacies, scrolling through shops, street corners that remain
cursed against good business.
Now, entire blocks, neighborhoods, cursed out of existence,
replaced by newer, better neighborhoods. The passing on
of the Western Addition, the rest-in-pieces Panhandle. Gone
without sacrament. Some unholy resurrection as blinding as the sun.
Hard to deny the sun.
The Snitch posts a photo: “Going Out of Business.”
Handwritten block letters on white butcher paper.
The butcher takes it down from the window, wraps his meat in it.
Local, yes, and free-range. Do it, but use Slow-Food Movements.
KQED is remembering Maurice Sendak today.
I’m remembering when the wild things were,
and where are they now, the three
orange couches we were given? Home.
Home. I click Home. But nothing like pillows or parents or
school, or any of the buildings I once knew.
Instead, I find refreshed, anew
these similar but distorted headlines, friends’
faces as feed, a girl lifting her Work-It Skort: Now
in Three Colors! I’m told there are tattoo designs so subtle,
they’re Impossible Not to Love.
There are things which might surprise me, and those I’ll never believe.
There are things a woman could never understand, or that
an Asian should be upset for. And an update
announcing: This is YOU.
This is how you feel when.
This is Beyoncé.
This is making people sick.
These you Must Have.
Dear you, I am in love with you.
Dear the heavens, dear the moon,
Dear, just to be near to you. Dear
in the marinated belly of noon,
the magnetic alphabet of sunset
arranging itself across the sky, the
raised sounds and smells of night’s
blank page. Dear, write me. The
longer you wait, the older I grow.
Dear, dear me. Dear, please,
all over me.