So this is it. At dawn, you count
the sheep on your ceiling and at dusk,
you ring for your mother.
So much for life. When it is as brittle as
cherry tart crushed like unset soil. When only an
isthmus connects us to its antipode.
A melancholic tingle drips
from the sun. Like a bud opening,
soon the world would have known your name.
The pine cones shiver. Even in the
chromatic hue, they echo like a
wind chime in rain.
Leopard print stars whisper illuminations
to the wind. In a house not far away, your preternatural sense
Whatever voracity you once held onto quiets. Alone,
your mouth becomes a closed song. Daybreak
shatters into chimney smoke.
Maybe like Godward, this world was too
small for you. Too repetitive to
hold you up any longer.
Autumn and Edmonton’s blue moon
watches you. A glimmer of an
orange snow peak hums.
Rounded mountaintops highlight in
indigo. Down the curved road, a blue streetlight casts
an ebullience over the whole world. Blue.
Sophia Liu is a Chinese-American writer and artist from New York. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Sheila-Na-Gig, opia, The Augment Review, Bitter Fruit Review, Lanke Review, and elsewhere. She has been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, the National Council of Teachers of English, Cisco Writers Club, and Hollins University. She volunteers as a writing teacher for the Princeton Learning Experience and wants a pet cat.