top of page
  • Editor

On Loving -- poetry by Karen Zhao

Never have I

dreamed you caught between

the corners and long

sweeps of stanzas,


but again I

thwart myself. My heart and

liver leavening with

such hollowness. God,


I want to swallow the parts

of you I’ve never known. As if


I would then remember


you as more than the imprint

of your face in snow, tender


my belated piety. In my dreams,

I walk past the graves of

my ancestors. Nothing

stays. Footsteps quiet on

sand, afloat through wind.


But you looked at me like I

was your heart or liver. I suppose

I was—molded by the cosmos

before I was your flesh and

blood. Your greetings,

praises so warm even


when I flinched at

your touch. Even when I

laid bare my

disdain.


And I,

I confess—

Your hair, face, voice

had already slipped half-

way through my

hands until my father told me

that you,

you with the last of your voice, asked

Is my granddaughter well?



 

Karen Zhao is a high school senior from California. She edits for Cathartic Lit and Farside Review. When she’s not writing, she can be found watching movies or attempting to sew.

25 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All
bottom of page