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Poetry by Arlene Ang


Call It French

Where indigo
rain steams windows,
our breaths
darkly contour
this undulating space
between touching tongues.

Far thirstier is the sweat
sweeping down our napes
that we press closer
for that pre-possessing drink.



Brazen Rain

We are diluvial rye over scarecrow fields
where blackbirds flap from strings.

A grain in the eye blinds enough.

And we rain the ground - half-seed, half-hay:
the voracity of tantric sex.

Deluge is drunk through folds in the skin.



About the Author

Arlene Ang lives in Venice, Italy as a freelance translator and web designer. She also edits the Italian Niederngasse. Her poetry has recently appeared in Tryst, Sidereality, Adirondack Review and Cordite. Awards include: Absinthe Literary Review 2002 Eros & Thanatos Prize Winner and Clean Sheets 2003 Poetry Contest 2nd Place Winner.