May/June 2021 • Vol. XLIII No. 3 PoetryMay 3, 2021 |

Blue Water

The water remained blue across centuries of swallowing. Because it is not a cemetery, it does not date its memories. On the sky is a diary that cataloged eyes lost to the sea. In the language of a gong, water clashes against the rocks, an elegy to the fish that embalmed our dead inside their cold bodies. After the new millennium, I learned to love what I cannot keep. A seed vault was built outside a deserted city; obscured by grief, we searched for familiar faces in the shadows. The mouth of the sea widens, every song in a foreign tongue begins to sound like a prayer.

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One Cactus

By Marianne Chan

The water remained blue across centuries of swallowing. Because it is not a cemetery, it does not date its memories. On the sky is a diary that cataloged eyes lost […]

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