This is more than memory: the stop-motion boys playing war
along the old cul-de-sac, angel lawn ornaments matte
in the February light, pink tricycles in the weeds; wheels
slicing the dirt. Once I could unstitch the sky. Once
the clouds were winding white gauze, each drainage ditch
a new center for the end of the world. I could’ve been ruined
concrete, charred plastic, a blast radius of final flower fields
—& the alliteration would gleam beautifully, at least to
me. Instead, the sun rises every morning, & I go on detours
without a coat. What I do know: beautiful words. Empty
words. The wheat fields, swaying; how even my shadow blinks
& blurs into periphery. How much remembrance is anything
worth, when this memory continues
so bright & cold & real?
— Fiona Jin
Illustration by Ella Zesiger.