Ashley Wang
Abecedarian for a Dead Horse
after Bojack Horseman
all the hollywood angels turn ash for a horse's half-
buried corpse, black swans rearing their beautiful necks. i
care about yous unravelling so confidently, as if
deceit only falls from human mouths, square molars like
eggshells. trust me: i was no saint, only primordial puddle of
fucked-up feelings— eyes killed in a lightswitch, thrown past
god's silhouette or my father's shadow, shoulder blades
hazed sharp for hacking beer bottles. i blank slate, face
indictments in a coffin. no new-age incense or crystals or
jade eggs to shield sight, i discover what damaged daughters look like:
ketamine withdrawals from halfway down, scenes pasted onto a sitcom
laugh track. artifice reaped in a loop: how camera angles
mold names, make syringes into heroes. how brushstrokes paint
noon as gravitational syrup, smear a million small skies
onto our palms. i always wanted to believe the teleprompters, but mom said trust
pacifies the strong, mottles their bones. so like any good son, i choked
quaaludes every time faith crept up my throat, the same way directors grew
rolls of singed rope in my lungs, manholed minefields of cigarettes. no
shame in coming clean, no shame in dropping an act tossed around
too often by undressed agents. even secretariat, o golden idol,
untethered when a tilted bender swept away the crowds, when reality tore
velcro from applause. no longer sticking. even mothers fade slowly
with time, memories breaking like receipts into white: xerox of
xerox of xerox of xerox, printing wasted copies into guttered
yawns. i tried to pinpoint exit signs from the planetarium, locate the needles
zipping my face off. tried to end in a tesla instead of the glue factory.
but i didn’t. and everything is worse now.
after Bojack Horseman
all the hollywood angels turn ash for a horse's half-
buried corpse, black swans rearing their beautiful necks. i
care about yous unravelling so confidently, as if
deceit only falls from human mouths, square molars like
eggshells. trust me: i was no saint, only primordial puddle of
fucked-up feelings— eyes killed in a lightswitch, thrown past
god's silhouette or my father's shadow, shoulder blades
hazed sharp for hacking beer bottles. i blank slate, face
indictments in a coffin. no new-age incense or crystals or
jade eggs to shield sight, i discover what damaged daughters look like:
ketamine withdrawals from halfway down, scenes pasted onto a sitcom
laugh track. artifice reaped in a loop: how camera angles
mold names, make syringes into heroes. how brushstrokes paint
noon as gravitational syrup, smear a million small skies
onto our palms. i always wanted to believe the teleprompters, but mom said trust
pacifies the strong, mottles their bones. so like any good son, i choked
quaaludes every time faith crept up my throat, the same way directors grew
rolls of singed rope in my lungs, manholed minefields of cigarettes. no
shame in coming clean, no shame in dropping an act tossed around
too often by undressed agents. even secretariat, o golden idol,
untethered when a tilted bender swept away the crowds, when reality tore
velcro from applause. no longer sticking. even mothers fade slowly
with time, memories breaking like receipts into white: xerox of
xerox of xerox of xerox, printing wasted copies into guttered
yawns. i tried to pinpoint exit signs from the planetarium, locate the needles
zipping my face off. tried to end in a tesla instead of the glue factory.
but i didn’t. and everything is worse now.
Ashley Wang lives in Lawrenceville, NJ. Her poems appear or are forthcoming in Gigantic Sequins, Sine Theta Magazine, Up The Staircase Quarterly, Polyphony Lit, and elsewhere.