Poetry

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At the end of the memory, you forgot to close the door. You hear the neighborhood children playing hide-and-go-seek outside in the yard, calling Come out, come out, as if still looking for you. But where are you now? Is this your house? Did you place the cherries on the counter? Is that blood or …

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Associate Editor Andy Sia: In Stella Wong’s compact poem, an array of transformations is possible. The bird of paradise seems to lift off into the blank space of the enjambment, but in fact exists in proximity to bamboo: “bamboo chairs.” Read as a verb, “chair” offers multiple, even countervailing registers: to preside over, or to …