by Justin Teoh
A cross generational family affair bound in the air. Great nature pounds the window harder with every song. All effort of specific poetry goes dumb, because seeds do not travel in straight lines. I think this is what it’s like to stand before an afterlife.
For the longest time I sank in deep blue when I sought for anchorage. Any waves that were meant to be were more mocking than comforting. They take without needing to deserve it. I’m sidelined before I can find the words to raise my own. If my departed gathers round fourteen nights before, You’re the best of us, they’d say. But supposed trailblazers are reconciled to rekindle sweet ashes only when they’re about to take flight, and beloved apparitions can’t recreate a childhood’s warmth. A Chinese fortune teller took me for a shark; but I refuse to leash myself to hunger.
You say we’re in a collective blanket, and the air of dawns onward crisps even the most heaving of chests. But I clutch my vertebrochondral ribs, wrist clicking with only the howlite, petrified wood, labradorite. False ribs terminology calls it, but I’m familiar with twining my fingers in them until they chip and become singular. These gaps are where I can remind myself of what’s ordained before particular others could pry them from me.
And under the soft refraction of pine leaves, I could see this country for miles. But what I was looking for in this August clearing, I think, was an anthropomorphic guide. Because I’ve shapeshifted too many times to tell if it’s premeditated. All of these students are ever ready to bare skin and tongue while I’m trying to make sure I’m not melting too much of what’s real. If time can tell, can time leave me a planet of my own?
Though I bear thanks to the perennial fauna for their consolating assurance as the weathered who came before me. Sky blue lupine, sugar maple. I know the plaid coats spread snow angels wider. The bell tower tolls and I’m picking up the pace. The electric of crackles and pops is coming back. While my pocket fumbles for goodwill currency, do I partake in the renaissance of simple joys, or be blinded into a looming shadow in the laughter of the cicadas?