Creekwater cradle. Swans in gowns.
Your face is a lost ship drifting
 
in amber dim. Just as my palms
are smoke animals. They swallow
 
each tiny flame gasping for breath.
Summer—a slow turning. That blade
 
of red citrus, sweetness knifing
the throat. We sit by the riverside.
 
I first build palaces, then promises
of matchstick & fir. Mayflies halo
 
our crowns, sparking like pale sores
as you cling to the brook’s torso.
 
Like any false lover it rushes forth,
breaks against touch. It’s not about
 
cleanliness, but how your virgin dress
stains in sun-skeined froth. & no, it’s
 
not about love, but how I beheaded
your larkspur offspring, plaited them—
 
sepal chains locked to your windpipe.
In the end, I can only listen to forest
 
sounds arranged into words by ghosts.
When you capsize, a voiceless maiden
 
ship embracing a marble-blue river, what
I did not think to grasp for are the flames
 
lacing your darkened skirts. The dusk
water stills, begins its own courtship.

Jacqueline He

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