Photo by Rosie Lopolito
After Victoria Chang
Memory—was born on December 4th
and died the following day of stress
or maybe neglect, whichever is easier
to swallow when the mature eldest
AFAB affliction sinks her polished
crooked teeth into glossy tomatoes
your grandparent—I can’t remember
which one—gave you on a mountain
across a handful of oceans and silt.
I search for your smile among rootless
parts, but there’s only a brush of straight
hair, warm arms, a lint-shaped friend
I miss like a wine-dark sea. Memory
withered and burned alone beneath
the weight of itself, so let us scatter
the ashes when we meet again, your
round face glowing under the moon
I have always loved.
Kindergarten 