Tan Tuck Ming is an essayist, poet, and an MFA graduate at the University of Iowa. Born in Singapore and raised in New Zealand, his current work is interested in the shifting structure of the family, especially in the context of migration, displacement, and welfare.


Tan Tuck Ming

Genealogy of the Wet Market



When the chest of the pig is split open, an uprising of chrysanthemum occurs only to you. The decisive blade like your shining father, who, in his absence, has always been a projection of fluorescent light. A father is a man with a cleaver in a computer chair, inspecting an Excel spreadsheet or a lonesome carcass, the axial slicing a transformative magic distinctive of most freelance butchers. The administration of when pig bone becomes Pork Rib — a distinction as lovely as tongue, thigh. What catches your eye is not the protagonism of prestigious cuts but an orphan note of fat on the blooming floor you develop deep feelings for. It is clench-shaped, like a lull, shallow pocket where spareness goes to evacuate the earth. Timidity blunts you from exchanging introductions. You worry that this fascination is not mutual and it is not. The glimmer of a knowing thing is soft, like a fable’s music. Pig killed yesterday, the butcher reminds. And there is no grasping toward humiliation. Only one of you musing the neighboring blood as if corrective, as if glue.




Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
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