Hello Friends,
Dorothy Chan (she/they) features a number of triple sonnets in her latest poetry collection Return of the Chinese Femme (2024). In an interview about this book, Chan shares, “Poetry, and in particular, the sonnet, and even more specifically, The Triple Sonnet, contains conversational elements where my speakers use humor, seduction, storytelling, and direct narration to reveal their innermost vulnerabilities. I also believe that poetry is simply another medium of receiving information — but of course, it’s a much more lyric and musical medium — one that allows my speakers to bask in the glory of who they are. I 100% believe in my speaker, the queer Asian femme, being unapologetic at all times.”
Enjoy.
— Ællen
Dorothy Chan (she/they) features a number of triple sonnets in her latest poetry collection Return of the Chinese Femme (2024). In an interview about this book, Chan shares, “Poetry, and in particular, the sonnet, and even more specifically, The Triple Sonnet, contains conversational elements where my speakers use humor, seduction, storytelling, and direct narration to reveal their innermost vulnerabilities. I also believe that poetry is simply another medium of receiving information — but of course, it’s a much more lyric and musical medium — one that allows my speakers to bask in the glory of who they are. I 100% believe in my speaker, the queer Asian femme, being unapologetic at all times.”
Enjoy.
— Ællen
Triple Sonnet Because Boy, You’re Starstruck and I’m a Wonder
Boy, you’re starstruck. I love the way you rub
the red lipstick off above my Cupid’s bow—
how you call it the halo of my face, because
girliness equals goodness equals godliness
equals, let’s be real, Oh My Goddess, like that
moment when Hades and Persephone meet
in the fractured Greek myth, and the Goddess
of Spring chugs her can of pomegranate soda,
because her future lover is oh so fine, and check
out that ass. They don’t make stories like this
anymore, do they? Boy, you’re my good afternoon
delight as the Fountains at the Bellagio go off,
as the tourists at the bistro across the street
much on Steak Béarnaise and Croque Monsieur
and Wild Escargots de Bourgogne, as the water
dances to Sinatra’s Come Fly with Me,
and I’ve just about named every cliché
in the romance book, minus the flowers—
I had to stuff the Vegas Strip in there, but no,
let me start over now. F was right that day
in Tallahassee when he traced the lines on
my palm and said the three long ones at the end
meant I’d have many great loves in my life,
and how I laughed at F’s face after. And oh, Boy,
was F right, I think, when X asks me on the phone
if I’ve ever been in love, and I say No too fast,
and I might be lying to her, but who really
cares? I used to want to outsex everyone, make
everyone want, make everyone pant,
make everyone chew their steak just a little
harder, order that extra shot of whiskey.
And his lips go wild because I’ve just drank
bourbon—that extra tingle of tongue—
the red lipstick that gets him all messy,
gets me all messy again, gives me the halo
above my Cupid’s bow, and what’s it like
being in lust with a man and a woman
at the same time—it’s like dancing in a corner,
your tank top about to slip off, exposing
nipples, but you keep dancing. And Boy,
I’m a wonder, and when you kiss me,
I think about her red lips kissing me.
■
Boy, you’re starstruck. I love the way you rub
the red lipstick off above my Cupid’s bow—
how you call it the halo of my face, because
girliness equals goodness equals godliness
equals, let’s be real, Oh My Goddess, like that
moment when Hades and Persephone meet
in the fractured Greek myth, and the Goddess
of Spring chugs her can of pomegranate soda,
because her future lover is oh so fine, and check
out that ass. They don’t make stories like this
anymore, do they? Boy, you’re my good afternoon
delight as the Fountains at the Bellagio go off,
as the tourists at the bistro across the street
much on Steak Béarnaise and Croque Monsieur
and Wild Escargots de Bourgogne, as the water
dances to Sinatra’s Come Fly with Me,
and I’ve just about named every cliché
in the romance book, minus the flowers—
I had to stuff the Vegas Strip in there, but no,
let me start over now. F was right that day
in Tallahassee when he traced the lines on
my palm and said the three long ones at the end
meant I’d have many great loves in my life,
and how I laughed at F’s face after. And oh, Boy,
was F right, I think, when X asks me on the phone
if I’ve ever been in love, and I say No too fast,
and I might be lying to her, but who really
cares? I used to want to outsex everyone, make
everyone want, make everyone pant,
make everyone chew their steak just a little
harder, order that extra shot of whiskey.
And his lips go wild because I’ve just drank
bourbon—that extra tingle of tongue—
the red lipstick that gets him all messy,
gets me all messy again, gives me the halo
above my Cupid’s bow, and what’s it like
being in lust with a man and a woman
at the same time—it’s like dancing in a corner,
your tank top about to slip off, exposing
nipples, but you keep dancing. And Boy,
I’m a wonder, and when you kiss me,
I think about her red lips kissing me.
■
