summer has a way of making
me feel small and hard. everything
that hurts does so more slowly.
somehow I become my migraine,
a bulbous pinch in my left eye.
in your end notes
you unravel under
an endless sky, limbs reaching
upwards as the tree branches
that trace songs of circles on a
I tell everyone that birds
have hollow bones. when it is difficult to
breathe I imagine being held together
by air, some bizarre graft that remains
within kingdom animalia.
I shout my questions into a distant
kaleidoscope: if I slip into the green, will
the green have me back?
the colours of movement
are so much brighter than I
By Amanda Wan
Amanda Wan is a student of Honours English Literature and Asian Canadian & Asian Migration Studies (ACAM) at the University of British Columbia, which is located on the unceded territories of the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam) peoples. She was raised by immigrant parents on unceded, ancestral Coast Salish lands, where she gratefully reads, writes, loves, and daydreams.”