ll always be grateful to Helena Nelson, my first editor, for having faith in my work when I didn’t.
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Granta for their support – especially to Eleanor Chandler for her owl-eyed suggestions.
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This book arose out of innumerable conversations and encounters. There are some people named in the poems (some names have been changed), but many others float lovingly in the background. I hope they know who they are and what they mean to me.
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These poems are spoken in memory of those who can’t hear them: Tjandra Sari, aka Mak (1931–2018) Swadaya Sitiabudi (1923–1979) John P. Harris (1923–2003) Emy van der Spek (1929–2002)
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and I asked if everything was OK. Yes, everything’s OK, you said, suddenly embarrassed, but wait, why am I telling you this
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and need a voice capacious enough to be both me and not-me,
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I reject the possibility of narrating any life other than my own
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I feel it still. But not with guilt. Reverberating in me. My rickety city.
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My freight train. My empty din.
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No jokes today please. See me slumped against the door. Up to my knees.