In an afterlife, I will walk through my last home
where linen white light buoys within glass mirrors.

A thousand feet into the sky & violets curl
into fists on a balcony of steel & sky-

scrapers. This foul cathedral. I am a stranger
here. The boy prince cut from the photo

frames me with guilt, reincarnated into  
the golden son. This new family runs the dishwasher

like a bath, in rivulets of excess. On the balcony
their clothes ripple in blue-shorn rivers,

surrendering to the cloudless sea on laundry lines.
Once, I was told to drown my daughterhood in violets.

Once violated, I was made holy by madness. So clear-
eyed, I could see my way through the door I found.

Now, in this toy cityscape, I shed my martyr face, my god-
given grief. Below, the park willows weep for me.

The women here do not believe in white
dresses or soft-skinned aubades. They incite arson  

with chemistry, detonating the impossible scientific
experiment of knowing whether someone loves you.

Though I was not so brave, in this new adaptation, I could be. 

—Serrina Zou

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