Poetry by Pui Ying Wong


The sky is blue, and bullets fly.

The sky is blue, and bullets fly.

The sky is blue, and bullets fly.

The sky is blue, and bullets fly.

Along a wild river and old villages,

Hung laundry and rubble,

Summer camp and freshwater, bullets fly.

The sky is blue, the sky is blue, the sky is blue.

In classrooms and in cinemas, in cafes

And in churches, in shopping malls and discos,

In barracks with flower beds and greenway, bullets fly,

Bullets fly, bullets fly, bullets fly.

In Sunday school amid bowed heads

And sacred texts, in parking lots

And on streets and highways, bullets fly.

Today, a man, a woman opens the door

To a blue sky, too blue,

The sky is blue.

The sky is blue.

The sky is blue.

The sky is blue.


Leave the window, let the bed

receive you like a simple lover.

Hear the small wind that tugs

at the curtain, the universe’s soft arc.

Let childhood’s lunar moon return, how

it trails after you like a loyal friend.

For so long you’ve gone from

here to there,

sometimes alone,

with others like a flotilla of stars.

You’ve learned one truth, you are worthy

of the earth’s bitter roots. Sleep.

It’s okay no one knows your sorrow

just as they don’t know your joy.

Night still arrives for you, in splendor,

familiar as you own breath.



An empty gazebo.

After dinner.


The sky turns,



of the day



Few paths converged



one to the lake,

the other to the road,

one more to our studio.


Uneven patches of grass,

unknown berries,

ivies wild


around the bend.


The moon has a chip.

Pen scratches on paper.

About the contributor

Pui Ying Wong is the author of two full-length books of poetry: An Emigrant’s Winter (Glass Lyre Press, 2016) and Yellow Plum Season (New York Quarterly Books, 2010) and two chapbooks. She has won a Pushcart Prize. Her poems have appeared in Ploughshares, Prairie Schooner, Crannog among others.

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