Amanda Chong (b. 1989)
SELECTED POEMS
No. 436
On the morning of his death
I unclasp his shackles.
I let him walk in front of me.There is a certain weight, the body
takes before it gives itself to air—
I see this in the leaden slump
of his shoulders, the lumber
of his unhindered feet.Last night, I measured out the precise
length required to bear his mass.
At the pale curve of his nape,
I discovered a small constellation of moles
that a woman must know by heart.I fasten the coarse braid, a necklace.
His pulse thrums through my quickening
fingers. I turn him away from me
and tenderly veil his face.I pull the lever, with the practiced reverence
of a soldier hoisting a flag to mast.
I do not stop, until I feel him above me—
hooded and pendulous.
by Amanda Chong
from Professions (2016)
