In the winter

I ask myself: who do you want to be?

I contemplate getting a perm

because sometimes you just need to

look a little different

to how you see yourself

to see yourself.


I think about this when I walk

past lemon trees turned orange

from the sun.

The lingering of

warmer months.

I think of oranges cut

into wedges by my mother.

A basket of fruit is a gift

but a bowl of cut fruit is love.

And in the distance

between us, I wonder: who

is cutting her fruit? How

many oranges in her kitchen

are left whole?

I imagine my thumbs

squishing themselves between

skin and flesh, juice

trickling down my wrist.

Later, I smell of

citrus and fall asleep

to a memory.


I do a hundred things

before I sit down to write. I wait

for the sun to rise and set

and fill the time with motions,

with muscle memory. I ask

these hands: who do you want to be?

And there is no reply.


Later, I catch light falling

through leaves.

Later, I watch Saturn through

a telescope and dream of her rings.

And I am filled with


Anthea Yang is a writer and poet based in Melbourne. She has performed at Spoken Word Perth and Melbourne Writers Festival, and her poetry was shortlisted for the 2020 Dorothy Porter Award for Poetry. She is currently working on a project on tending joy. Born in Perth, Western Australia, her favourite season is summer.