But Again By Cindy Xin

But Again

it begins with blindness: the indistinguishable swarm of
sun and dark       your enemies swaddling chrysanthemums
across the darkest plumes of your body. by your face: a
hand struck with hope, a garage of pulleys and medicine,
a mother and a father who call you by a name until the
doves whittle sky-thin. They are moondust. They are catalyst.
Wherever you wander, you will return to those faces:
in the mirror, father is waiting on the bridge by the pond
father is waiting without books in his hand      father is by
his desk again creating life         with a pipe & some smoke,
evaporating blood through his palms into your throat.
can you believe in river?            that in moments desperate
enough, your blood will suffice as wings? you learn the
names of trees to understand his kind of wisdom:
acacia thin, hemlock wild.            you visit his god, drape
his angels over your eyes, and learn the steady nature
of violence.           when the snow came in torrents, you
reached for his hand only to find an empty salve:         the ice un-
peeling to river, water-blood warming you to safety,
love in fragments too small to hold

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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