RENDANG

ll always be grateful to Helena Nelson, my first editor, for having faith in my work when I didn’t.

Granta for their support – especially to Eleanor Chandler for her owl-eyed suggestions.

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.

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)

and I asked if everything was OK. Yes,
everything’s OK, you said, suddenly embarrassed, but wait,
why am I telling you this

and need a voice capacious enough to be both me and not-me,

I reject the possibility of narrating any life other than my own

I feel it still. But not with
guilt. Reverberating in
me. My rickety city.

My freight train. My empty din.

No jokes today please.
See me slumped against the door.
Up to my knees.