do you still remember
the ocean? the seagulls,

the waves asunder? you brought
a record player, and sat

on the beach
like kids in a field.

 the dslr couldn’t capture 
how pretty you were, so instead 

it froze polaris, while you watched
the townhouses on the opposite

coast light up in self-defense, 
melting greenland by accident. 

your voice, I think,
stayed the same—still the carousel 

spinning, standing, 
dreaming in technicolour, even as

avant-garde films screened in
cold-hearted theatres, and mermaids

sung to men in white, 
even as the ocean paused to speak

before self-destructing 
to tchaikovsky’s 6th. 

some summers, I still 
go back to amsterdam, where the graves 

brace for the annual flood,
put on the songs you used to play 

for bananafish, as they rode
the crashing tide, and 

order water at starbucks, to pass the time, 
to see the barista write your name.

INGRID CUI is a student at the University of Toronto. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Half a Grapefruit Magazine, Ghost City Review, Poetry Institute of Canada, and The Trinity Review.