The First Poem I Ever Wrote: Wenshu Wang's "On transmutation"
- Wenshu Wang
- Nov 9, 2025
- 1 min read
Sure, questless again. My umbrella on the shelf
where I never put it. I can find it, unsure, but I will,
I will. My desk lamp isn’t working anymore, there’s too much
oil in the thing but the drainage is screwed more. I’d say
I am terrified of every beginning I have, each restless run
up that hill and the collapsing down again. I’d say take it
off of me, this easiness, my pledge into the sour ridge. My
word. Words. I think it’s meaningless, these signs
of life rifling through me, every crevice. I am sixteen,
again, when I’ve never been sixteen. Isn’t that just
a feeling? I’d say, maybe, and then receive
a response. Hopeless. This isn’t discernible, something
for someone to hold discernment to, and now it’s my mag
in the kitchen drawer. I wish I could stop paying
for those things, but the subscription
was a gift and it’d be a waste not to
carry on. I’d like to stop getting the bills. What little
stow, another give in my sweetened
legs. Gosh. I think I’d say I want my things, where
they were where I was not. Sure, I think you
could learn. I just wish you’d ask.
