In the winter of my life
you used to wrap me in your best
silks and sing to me until I saw stars.
The backyard was our sanctuary
of floating bubble-lights
and makeshift tents,
where we would play survival-time
until our knees bruised blue
and our lashes grew frost.
One night, we stayed out past bedtime
to linger beneath the full moon,
which glowed white as a saint
as we knelt down together.
Turning to me, you asked
if I believed in God,
in the marble staircase
leading ad sidera.
I said nothing but took your hand,
your pulsing wrist,
as if there was no place I’d rather be
than next to you,
as if the big sky with its blue-eyed angels
could not mean more than you.
Quietly, we dug holes into the snow
and buried ourselves, graves touching.
In the darkness I thought I saw paradise
between the white gates of your teeth.
Ella Wang is a high school writer living in New York City. When she is not reading or writing, she can be found listening to Phoebe Bridgers and daydreaming. At school, Ella is on the editing staff of Philomel, a student-run literary magazine.