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Maggie Yang is a poet and artist from Vancouver, Canada. She is a Foyle Young Poet of the Year, and her work has been recognized by the Scholastics Art and Writing Awards, The League of Canadian Poets, The Poetry Society of Virginia, and Poetry in Voice. Her work appears or is forthcoming in The Adroit Journal, Polyphony Lit and F(r)iction Lit, among others. An interdisciplinary artist, she is particularly intrigued by the intersections of the written word with the visual and performing arts.


— after In the Hood by David Hammons

I hang the wall. Engulfed

in light, I trample frames,

slash vernaculars, swallow color

into my body. As the spotlight extends

its ghostly gaze, dust mingles

with gold. In an embrace of fabric

syllables, my shadow swelters,

severed in retrospect. Blanketing

the air, I strangle the sun.



Swallowed by detonating dirt, you emerged

a sun-drenched cloth carried by the rushed hands

of soldiers as you were smuggled into a cloth caravan

under the grey sky. Lilies bloomed on your tongue

as you croaked mama among the hunched bodies

in a field of buried bones.

Your heartbeats mirrored the irises of gunfire, breaths

sewing into haphazard stitches as mama whispered

lullabies into your lungs.


Veins splinter your weathered skin, plums rotting

under the scalding heat. Colors fissure into roots

as sweetness erodes into bones,

chrysanthemums dormant

in your veins.

As gabled roofs curl into fists, your hands become

limp, harvested as withered seeds chipped into concrete.

Chopsticks fracture, fashion into limbs sprawled

like crooked paths. Cobblestones fork

into different omens, slashed with


The Yangtze river spills into roots, flooding

decayed porcelain bowls—plums

sour yet sweet, buried

as proverbs in the dirt.



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