Poetry / June 2015 (Issue 28)


by Piera Chen

You turn off the light and on your way to bed,
linger by the window. 'Open it a crack,' I say.
The wind whistles into the room, stirs up
sediments of seasons past, rearranges them
on the sheet, like a map of the future
we cannot read. The curtains billow
inward – white-bellied stingrays tethered
to the ceiling. They let in a strange light.
I watch our profiles cascade
down the wall, over the dresser
to the floor.
'The sky looks like a beach,' you say,
your face half-turned, pale like the moon
I cannot see.
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