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.