by
Hal Y. Zhang
sun caves
when you push feather-
hard at dawn, light falls fast
through the estuary. what
now? the carp swallows it,
grows hundred-fold then
explodes in regret
wading herons burn their legs,
become weight
less.
the orb rolls onto the banks,
a gentle flame in its wake, the
hill crumples inwards from
gravity, eggshell tapped by
an all-consuming spoon. what
must the sun feel, to be trapped
by its own efficacy.
now we
shudder in the void, without
light there are no things, there
is no shadow pretend it’s
not real
& say,
i am ready, i come from the dark
always,
forget the past and our shining
eyes. cast off the pearls, they are
useless now but for plugging
up holes, nose and fissures. hear
that cry amid exploding reeds and
prostrate yourselves in worship, it
wants to be
born.
sea-child, sea-mother
Hal Y. Zhang is an international transplant to the United States currently studying time and networks. In her spare time, she writes at halyzhang.com.
