Late Summer Ghazal – Ally Ang

Heat so thick, I swim in my sweat. I pluck plump blackberries off the bush and suck
juice from my fingers till the sunlight dwindles, my body drenched in luminous green.

Childhood summers spent squishing our toes into hot patches of asphalt, our bikes
taking flight as we raced down the block, blades of grass dyeing our kneecaps green.

The temperature crawls up like ants on a carcass. Mosquitoes grow fat off my nectarine
blood. I bury my limbs in the grass and let the earth reclaim me, a casket of green.

Smoke seeps in through the windows. Our faces covered, lungs aching for air. The bloodsun
blazes its weary warning. A forest burns. Memory is the brightest shade of green.

Another record shattered. Another pipeline on sacred land. Another body fed to the machinery
of profit. Each one a question I cannot ignore: Ally, what will you do in the absence of green?

Ally Ang

Ally Ang is a gaysian poet from Seattle. Their work has appeared in The Rumpus, Muzzle Magazine, ANMLY, and elsewhere. Ally is a 2023 NEA fellow and MacDowell fellow. Their debut poetry collection, Let the Moon Wobble, is forthcoming from Alice James Books in 2025. Find them at

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