a gentle apocalypse, a new spring by Jennifer Chiou (17, Florida)*

(& me, a gutted fish, 
retired koi borne of severed strings and dirty pennies—
tonight i unravel in the lampless dark, 
splayed limp and caustic against cheap linoleum,

---

in my mind i stumble my way through thresholds
and burn the photo frames as i go, restless and 
gripped by what i once was, in my head and out of time--
so tonight i seal my open wounds with candle wax,
let it burn and harden over frayed edges 
pour it all out until the light flickers, puff of smoke--
tonight the sky is foggy and i’m exhaling, 
tasting smoke and copper instead of you on my tongue—)

(& you, untethered, 
or maybe just unscarred by what we could have been–– me, i
wring myself through the memories biweekly, sear them into
my flesh until i am all fire, a big knot of red–– and still you
are only a jade pendant dangling,
cool and weighted, from another girl’s throat 
begging to be opened. and still i can only pretend to be her
downturned head and fluttering lashes when really i’m just
letting you hollow me out 
into a rib cage empty from the air sucked out of me, my
entrails like ghosts wrapped around your fingers, still
pleading––)

​​(& a thread, snapped in two,
a newly ruptured vein, crimson dried inky black in the night. 
and, blistering, i press myself to damp porcelain and let it
extinguish the flames.) 

​(& between us, a nymph floats down into the winter soil, hugs
itself to the roots of a great oak. nestled beneath the stars, 
unseen and buried the way a burn heals, tender and calloused 
and tender again—dull silk pulled loose over a bloody chasm, 
waiting to unveil itself. years later, its cicada wings will 
blossom in scattered ribbons, billowing in the wind, sheer and 
golden and lightly reflective of the sun.) 

(& our ashes lie still as fertilizer.)