It is February and I realize all dreams die.
My pen grows throats the size of Polaris,
and I stare: the havoc in the snow, the
moss over the cathedral’s surface, and
the images: Uncle Shin, hand jolting out
of the sewage, onto the shore. The way
he leapt: his last suit heavy with evening,
his skin pruning like a razor, the singing
of men gashing in a language he longed
to understand. And first there was hunger,
the kind you could see. And there—Uncle,
hands propped among the fireflies, light
reversing from the sky to his chest, hears
the song, pulls us up from fishing hooks
by the chorus. It is February. The barn
moltens beneath our palms. The river,
remembering our prayers, unfreezes.
And there—Uncle searching for the
thread, sweat indecipherable from dew,
obsidian rolling in the river. It is February
and I remember that even the grass can
be a cry for help. There—the same
song, blazing through a man’s heart as
he drives closer and closer to rescue,
returning as always to where it must be.
CINDY XIN is a high school student in California who loves writing poetry, listening to music, and staring at the sky.