This is not my husband.
Nightly his teeth moved in his mouth—
a game of musical chairs
that made him unrecognizable.

I didn’t marry a blind woman.
She woke up one day with quail eggs for eyes.
What use are those, he wanted to know,
if they won’t hatch or break?

Conjoined at heart, they dance.
I don’t belong here.
Their shadows move across the walls 
of a room eroded with age—

a territory of flapping sounds
as the doors open and close simultaneously
on whatever emptiness is.

Bio: Arlene Ang