Poetry by Pui Ying Wong


To get an accurate reading use

the middle finger of your dominant 

hand, dear. The result is almost instant, 

it is fine and I knew it. It’s the just-in-case,

the no-harm-done, the ready-for-anything

mantra I live by these days. 

Outside, trees are flowering, 

weak-pink and lips-thin, signs of spring 

that’s not quite spring. No place to be.

No one to see. Let’s toast for us, 

the exiled who are not quite the exiled

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)—along with two chapbooks. She has won a Pushcart Prize. Her poems have appeared in Ploughshares, Prairie Schooner, Plume, New Letters, Zone 3, among others. She lives in Cambridge MA with her husband, the poet Tim Suermondt.

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