Daybreak By Taeyeon Han


The moon is a silver sigil —
a remembrance of how there is always something bigger than us. Moonlight spills down like a vine, its granular smell,
its cascade of smoky ribbons kissing the air; it takes its time.

The light settles in my mouth. It’s sweet and biblical — sun-wet and parcel-wrapped.
Our language is riddled with the slick:
we share the light like limeade and our tongues soften to silk; I can’t remember why I was upset.

If we let it, the cacophony inside our clammy chests could measure us out like a necklace,
drip-drying at daybreak.

Come over here, we can send a package back to the generous moon: these balloons won’t be a smoke signal like the last time,
we are wedded to the daylight now.
I press an ear to my mother’s chest and
I can hear a hundred thousand hooves coming, all in due time.

When the sun tips over the horizon,
let’s not be afraid to lick our wounds clean.
We must ascertain what moves quickly between us, restructuring and redefining the mezzanine.
No longer cacophony-ridden, our remnant of speech, is most honed.

I am proud to say that I don’t know where the light ends and where I begin.

By Taeyeon Han


Taeyeon Han is a student in California. His writing appears or is forthcoming in The National Poetry Quarterly, Eunoia Review, and American Library of Poetry. He has been nationally recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, the Pulitzer Center, and finger comma toes. Other than creative writing, Taeyeon loves to read historical fiction, sing at karaoke, and find new restaurants.

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