Prologue, 35mm

By ​PW Jarungpiterah

Seven grey deck chairs. The dimming
waves and waves. A plate of sun rests
behind their heads, halo clinging
like a pink algae bloom. His face
is smeared mid-motion; damp oil stain.
The wind wraps her long hair
tight around the neck. She’s looking
outside the frame, at the line
of black betel quid gums, at hands
facing one another in a clapping
motion. To get back to the body, thumb
the rim of the photograph—its layers
shift and separate like cheap plywood.

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The Reader

By ​PW Jarungpiterah

On the third visit she says your mind
is a craggy, gold-flecked sentinel
with cement feet and why it is
you still eat ghosts—even the trees are
overlays, the landscape as thin as red film
negatives or the seams in your sleep.
Uncanny tourist. Cracked egg. Your yellows
slide and gleam. The sugar tastes cold.

Outside, the antique world.
A temple bell strikes a hundred and
eight and you see the way
animals see, the dog that starts
at nothing, chameleon frequencies
such that your eyes never adjust

to the dark. Your body is planographic— 
black ink corridors of copies
of copies. Under a hot shining
firmament, the gilt that covers everything
comes off on your hands.

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​PW Jarungpiterah is working on her first poetry collection. Her work has appeared in places such as The Malahat Review, TNQ, Rattle, Room, carte blanche and The Antigonish Review.