Miranda Tsang

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.

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Virtual Breakfast

San Francisco, 2016

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

But these,

these,

These you Must Have.

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My Dear

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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.

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