Poetry by Arlene Ang
Call It French
rain steams windows,
this undulating space
between touching tongues.
Far thirstier is the sweat
sweeping down our napes
that we press closer
for that pre-possessing drink.
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,
the voracity of tantric sex.
Deluge is drunk through folds in the
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.