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    Invisible Gifts: Poems
    Invisible Gifts: Poems
    Invisible Gifts: Poems
    Ebook103 pages30 minutes

    Invisible Gifts: Poems

    By Maw Shein Win

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    About this ebook

    In her first full-length collection of poems, Win depicts a colorful world imbued with unexpected paradoxes: nature is both comforting and savagely unnerving; love is permanent and fleeting; the accuracy and flaws of memory abound. Her experiences with illness and recovery intertwine with her identity as a Burmese American daughter of immigrant doctors, flowing in poems like “Hands”: My father’s hands, frail birds, shaking wings. / In Burmese, “win” means bright. / Hands that stitched skin together and brought back life. Win’s unique perspective and artful language offer readers insight into how the heart can bend and mend without breaking.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherManic D Press, Inc.
    Release dateJul 3, 2018
    ISBN9781945665141
    Invisible Gifts: Poems
    Author

    Maw Shein Win

    Maw Shein Win is a Burmese American poet, editor, and educator who lives and works in the Bay Area. Her writing has appeared in many journals and several anthologies, including Cimarron Review, Fanzine, Eleven Eleven, The Fabulist, and Cross-Strokes: Poetry Between Los Angeles and San Francisco. She was an artist-in-residence at Headlands Center for the Arts, and is a member of the San Francisco Writers’ Grotto. She often collaborates with visual artists, musicians, and other writers. Win’s poetry is featured in artist Megan Wilson’s mural, Flower Interruption, a featured artwork in the special exhibition Flower Power at San Francisco's Asian Art Museum. She is the first Poet Laureate of El Cerrito.

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      Book preview

      Invisible Gifts - Maw Shein Win

      BLUE BELLS

      Home

      The steps that lead to the front door are flecked with silver

      dust and shimmer when the sun is low in the sky.

      When the toilet flushes, it echoes four times.

      Mismatched mattresses, Egyptian King frame.

      A broken oven with a working stove.

      The piles of paper, the piles of clothes, the piles of files.

      Objects collected over years and years.

      The slippers from Ikea so guests won’t scuff the floor.

      The houseplants that manage to live with little water.

      The dust bunnies, the hairballs, the silk underwear.

      The bent spoons, the dented pillows, the dental floss.

      The boxes in the garage filled with old pictures,

      letters, and record albums from the ’70s.

      Wrapped candies, Moroccan mask, tea bags,

      plane tickets, hospital bills.

      In the office closet, the ceiling is moldy, dark spots expanding,

      too high to reach without a ladder.

      The paint on the balcony wall peels off in shapes

      of rabbits and deer.

      A cigarette butt floating in a yellow flowerpot.

      The neighbor crosses the street.

      Why the recycled bins overflowing?

      Why the flow of strangers leaving with office chairs

      and toaster ovens?

      Why the missing husband, the dent in the car?

      Why the real estate agents in their well-fitted suits?

      Why the cracked driveway? Why the overgrown juniper?

      One fall, an old friend announced upon walking into

      the living room for the first time.

      I agree the view is fantastic, but you’re not supposed to live here.

      The hallway is a long corridor that leads to the front door.

      The doorknob is diamond-shaped and needs to be jiggled

      and turned to the left to be opened.

      The Wedding Party

      The guests arrive

      in twos and fours,

      emerge from their

      wagons and Mini-Coopers

      shawl-clad and neck-tied.

      They descend the

      dry grassy hillside

      like mountain goats

      teetering upon

      the rocks below.

      The bridesmaids tight

      in satin dresses,

      sweating lightly.

      The cousins and uncles

      quaffing the merlot.

      Flutes of champagne

      and roasted garlic rounds

      fly off the trays

      and the bluegrass band is blazing.

      Two old friends from college.

      They make their way to the dance floor.

      Long red dress swirls

      around their legs as they arch back.

      The wife of the man on

      the floor leans forward.

      Her eyes glazy and spent.

      His parents really wanted her

      you know she whispers not me.

      Her feet hurt in those heels.

      They make her want to smoke.

      The children sit on wood

      benches along the wall,

      cutting out paper flames

      scattering them on the floor.

      The wedding guests

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