By Ivi Hua
across the room, a woman is feeding quarters into the dryer.
moons into the slot, her machine still empty— a wasteland
behind the door. she’s left her basket over here & her clothing
reeks of sorrow. how many threads are truly hers? memory is
memory & memory is small agony. i wonder how an ache is
manufactured. 65% wool, 34% polyester, 1% of pure grief? these
days, i am more feeling than girl. stars in my bloodstream, scabs
on my knees. she’s crossing the room. i can feel our infinite
sparrows, lunging through their cages. in another life, we’d drown
in pearls, build temples of salt & sea. here, all fluorescent light
& cherry detergent, i watch her fold into sobs. i am the finch in
the birdhouse, trapped & unseen. i want to tell her penance
won’t make this the same. what we want rots in the wine-dark sea,
eddies into waste & ruin. she’s sinking to the floor, world
lavender in grief. i mirror & fall. kneel & pray. feathers on my lips.
darling, don’t you know that this is how it should be?
*previously published in the Aurora Journal
Ivi Hua is an Asian-American writer, dreamer, & poet, with works published/forthcoming in Juven, Polyphony Lit, & the Aurora Journal among others. A Best of the Net nominee & cofounder of Young Poets Workshops, she believes in the unifying power of writing. You can find her @livia.writes.stories on Instagram.
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