Tag Archives: Amy Liu

Margins

In the margins are hearts, writhing. Of curled eyelashes caked, tear-depths a watercolor better than Monet’s, do you remembers sandwiched inside double-spaced blurs. Fish swimming in spilled Poland Spring, ballpoints spinning through their first G-forces, O’s made whole and A’s … Continue reading

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Inception

We begin open-mouthed: How sine curves hold the first of breaths, that timid metronome of pulse, peering; cosine cradling staccato against her swelling breast, articulating; asymptote of the butterflied heart fed by fledgling fire, germinating at last. Ink everywhere: in … Continue reading

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Gateway

Everything of that culture, laid across a fantasy gateway, imagined color amid a sea of monochrome. Fog condenses, heavy in sorrow, saturating tracks laid by missing fathers. Paper lanterns glow, recalling dynamite that turned letters to home into ash. Pacific … Continue reading

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eight

for breakfast, peach flesh             slick and yellow— spoken over,                         blanched. butterknife dreams             love bites across             plump curves                         —she never said no. eight peaches, lucky. pits torn up,             gone out, rolling heads and tails;                         probability, ever             retrospective. for breakfast, thoughts             and … Continue reading

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Return

Jiangsu rains battering mother’s blowout and we think home, stairwell hollowed by our Westernized tread. Burgeoning sky, the limits we fragment. Belong here; our throats boil lies into a sweet truth, mother’s locks drowned in the river rapids. How quickly … Continue reading

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adolescence

in sakura park, you learn to cry. claremont avenue and you’re kissing the hudson river and then the cherry blossoms are falling, falling, falling with your pink tears until their branches curl towards the ground, stripped bare and brown. blossom … Continue reading

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Qiqiao Festival

In our dreams, magpies fly down a silver river             and build bridges from their fluttering wings. Summer, and we lean up into empty twilight,             plead for passage across her sparkling rapids. Here, we carry all that she hoped to someday … Continue reading

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attrition

when the tide comes in             it roars, asking us for change. pennies             it swallows for breakfast, nickels it burrows into neritic folds, always contrite.             the horseshoe crabs bleed meridian             quavers into the estuary, recoil when touched. pandora’s box             or another … Continue reading

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