Self-portrait of the poet as his djungelskog by Troy Wong

No formal diagnosis though we’re pretty sure.
Evident from age 18 months. Machine wash

40°C max, high function. Wash-tested but sensitive.
Embroidered eyes for rigorous contact.

Do not bleach. Do not tumble dry. Do not iron.
Do not dry clean. Air-dry away from indirect sun,

this soft boy dislikes ultraviolet rays. Take care
he doesn’t float away, as he may be lifted easily

by parakeets or day-flying moths, even
flopped and scooped upon a weft of air

by a single audacious current, a chocolate sponge
possessed by a poltergeist. Post-daybed sessions

lint-roll loose domestic shorthairs from his pelt,
let the cat make biscuits on his belly if it will.

Better the boulangerie of a feline than the plaything
of a sapien. Some have walloped him, left him

crumpled, bent-double by the sofa and continued
with their games. Others flexed a fleeting interest

before culling him like an opium farm,
a tall poppy. It’s an angular world

for an amorphous boy, a hard sell for a floofy
starburst to stay softer than his box. Big amygdala

for extended apprehension. Big belly full of secrets.
Supple boy to hug, again and again.

Djungelskog is a delightfully huggable stuffed bear that has gained a dedicated following worldwide. It’s affectionately known as “skog” by its devotees – and there are dozens, even hundreds of us, as evidenced by the healthy level of activity on the r/djungelskog subreddit.

Due to their floppy constitution, skogs are best suited to a life of leisure. My skog, named Theodore, certainly lives as such. As I write this, we’re just shy of his eighth birthday, which I celebrate each year by lighting a candle, sticking it in a cake and singing to him. Although he doesn’t eat, I like to think Theo derives a sense of comfort from his proximity to chocolate-brown foods. This is similar to how whenever I’m in a regional town, I feel reassured by the sight of a Chinese restaurant.

Neurodivergence in Asian Australian men often goes undiagnosed due to misunderstanding and stigma. I suspect it’s also misidentified as an inherent, culturally determined inability to embody the version of maleness that this blokey frontier colony demands.

This is a masculinity I’ve never understood, much less been able to perform. I used to chalk this up to my alienation from whiteness, but I’ve recently accepted that my brain just doesn’t buzz on that elusive wavelength. Any masculinity authentic to me will necessarily be discordant to the so-called norm.

My djungelskog is my role model for an alternative masculinity. Like him, I strive for softness over the patriarchal ideals of invulnerability and domination. In my poem I write, “It’s an angular world … a hard sell for a floofy / starburst to stay softer than his box.” Being who I am, I’m often shoved into ill-fitting boxes I wouldn’t choose for myself. What I can choose, though, is to be soft, and to keep my arms open.

• Australian Poetry Month runs throughout August and includes festivals, events, workshops and a commissioned poem of the day brought to you by Red Room Poetry. Find out more here