I opened the silver pronged evening and translated

the great song of the Industrial Age. Each night

I hoped it would tell a different ending. Each time

it sang a song, sadder than I would have imagined.

I heard it, not only when I put all my perspectives

away on shelves, until the shelves caved in.

What was left: a room with windows that looked out

and I interpreted the vast room that spoke of longing,

but mostly air. I consoled myself, heavy lidded,

I revealed myself to no one. I ached by the staircase.

I opened the cupboards and the refrigerator to let the cold in.

I walked with my bare feet dragging my lone body,

cold as milk as I kissed the bottomless depth, an ear

tuned toward the series of bells, wind tied to a tree.

And then the wind stopped. If I break

the many windows will the sea roil and foam?

I am consumed with houses and what may propagate

inside them. What longing lives there, breeds

redemption? An open door to the wide plain is not a metaphor.

I swing it open each day. I leave the old house.

–Tina Chang

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Tina Chang’s second and most recent collection of poetry is Of Gods & Strangers(Four Way Books, 2011). Chang teaches poetry at Sarah Lawrence College. She is also the poet laureate of Brooklyn.

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