On Being Asked, "What Is Your Dream Job?"
by Ally Ang
The cops fall dead at my feet, flowers blooming
from their gaping mouths, so I make bouquets
for all my friends. We drink wine in the park
and kiss each other’s foreheads, lips sticky
with laughter. My hand finds a home in hers
and no venom drips from a stranger’s mouth.
The sky glitters like a child’s art project
while we peel each other’s legs open,
sculpting our pleasure into a poem,
bloody and wet and begging to be born.
It awakens, rubs sleep out of its eyes,
and ignites the Capitol in flames.
Of course I do not waste my precious dreams
Ally Ang is a gaysian poet and MFA candidate at the University of Washington in Seattle. Ally’s work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Bettering American Poetry, and they have been published in Nepantla, AAWW’s The Margins, The Journal, and elsewhere. Find them at allysonang.com, or on Instagram and Twitter @theoceanisgay.