The Woman Sitting Across Me On The Subway
is made of clay and she keeps sweating, making the entire car smell like earth and salt and
change. She unwraps her shawl and reties it around her head to keep its domical shape, but
the fibers dig into the clay and leave an imprint. I try not to stare. I think it’s brave to go out
being so pliable and raw, so blatantly unfinished and proudly in progress. It does no good to
go into the kiln before you’re ready to be cremated. Dry clay dust is toxic and once inhaled
settles in your lungs in silty layers until the breath is choked out of you.
Angie Kang is an illustrator and writer living in Providence, Rhode Island. Her writing has been published or is forthcoming in Narrative, Porter House Review, Lunch Ticket, Hobart, and others. Find more of her work at www.angiekang.net, or on instagram @anqiekanq.
