by Li Zhuang
My love for you is
like a dying sun
—flower, kept in a green wine
bottle for too long, its stems
cloaked in white mold
My love for you is
like an old towel
freshly-washed
with crushed beanpoles
My thoughts of your body
are like red-hot soot
wrapped in gentle wetness
—extinguished
Behind your shoulder blades
under August sun, in your shadow
merciful, a soft heart taps along
After a violent storm
on the cusp of a young
pine needle, a pearl
of rain about to drop
In the silent
accumulation
of power,
in a game
of gravity,
that will end
in the fall
I walked
with wavered
determination,
a growl held
in my throat
LI ZHUANG is a Chinese bilingual writer. In 2019, Li graduated with an MFA in Fiction Writing from Columbia University. Her works have been featured in The Common, Denver Quarterly, the Madison Review, Southeast Review, Worcester Review, the Collapsar, etc. Li is currently working on a poetry project that, much like the Chinese zodiac’s use of animals to symbolize personality and fate, uses animal metaphors to reflect her journey as a Chinese diasporic poet in the United States.
