Shangyang Fang


Shangyang Fang



The tea is turning cold.
It holds a winter in its mind.
Soon, it will be a mattress

of dead pool and the beetles
will lather their brittle shells
in this blue bathroom

The birds shall continue,
sighing, “I’d rather, I’d rather.”
I write to make myself un-

recognized. Inside the sterilized
window, the spruce
stays, magpies, erased.

I would cut my lips
to drink the tea, but my hands
are too frail to lift 

its coldness. The mountains
are approaching. My lines must be
revised, because you

were right, “It’s best to read Russian
novels in winter: it is always
snowing. Everyone is sad.”




Shangyang Fang grew up in Chengdu, China. He writes poems both in English and Chinese. He is currently a poetry fellow at Michener Center for Writers.