Taken from the Eye By Cindy Xin

Taken from the Eye

Part of the passion: wading waist-deep into the sky,
now liquid and sullen over your wrists. Your dress
looks different now, louder, yet subdued. Stop it—

you’re holding on too tight to something you’re
not willing to keep. Ice mends, unmends, himself
upon your back. You ask him for help, to be

consumed or to be released, but again, this is part
of the passion— you may only float as high as
permitted. Let the leeches do what they will— the

body, when lank, is the most faithful. Let the sky
undulate over and into you, leaving you nonetheless
nameless. In the back, your mother contemplates

the folds of an onion. Your mother is contemplating
a prayer. How purple is so difficult to remember.
How the years should unpeel, how she should’ve

found you by now. You give yourself nothing because
you are looking for everything: the dull the petals hide,
the death behind the mouth. This isn’t it, and you know

it—but the stars. You’d die to see them. There are
better things— but the stars. You’d re-read this
whole nightmare. Tear yourself apart for them.

Hope for a salve of their silence.

By Cindy Xin


Cindy Xin is a junior in Albany High School in California who enjoys writing poetry, listening to music, and staring at the sky. Her work is forthcoming in Earth Island Journal, Half Mystic, After The Pause, and Glass.

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