graveyard of little things — Emily Tong
to the left: a
right-winged cicada shell’s ichor-less ochre bones, stained glass fragments of sunlight immortalized in its boneless husk, its glazed film bulb body. god, what a disservice—all that sunshine—summertime insect net mesh—melting popsicle juice licked off pudgy fingers—eternity, here, in this moment: and you’re putting him in the ground. some
flightless dream.
fresh-soil middle like the axiom of a crucified god—vainglory or something like it, anyway. sunflower-silt boys come here to die with newspaper remiges, just imagine:
beat-up boy with a basketball bracket, biking—in the rain.
shuffle-flash-fumble-why’re-you-home-so-late-what-the-hell-are-you-doing—
buckle brim-flash
budlight-brash buckle
come on, just imagine it—stillborn boys like these do better as miniature bulwarks. some things never become holy; nothing you can do except give a warm burial.
rightwards:
you, at fifteen: a study in being/feeling/being small, contemporary single-winged portrait of
adam escaped from the metropolitan, illuminated in
fire fear
god wasn’t it the sistine
the long summer-grass lambency—i dream of the basilica of santa croce—from the year before you turned sixteen with rigor mortis—is florence treating you well—i hope it is—
of leftover light, maybe. come visit me
before october arrives.
Emily Tong is an Asian-American poet from New Jersey. An alumnus of the Iowa Young Writers' Studio, her work has been recognized by or is forthcoming in the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers, Fugue, Palette Poetry, Hollins University, Augur Magazine, BRAWL, and more. When not writing, she enjoys painting and reading.