“The Sky Above” by Meera Joseph; “Jewel” by Anne Fu

fishfortsacoyanus

In yesterday’s light he touched me like

I had been made by God when all I wanted was

to turn my back; the stars sung our romance to

dead-eyed poets and hung themselves in constellations for

voyeurs; I am not a voyeur. I did not want love. My

mother unintentionally taught me when she

showed me the roadkill between her thighs: stories

are for those who do not have; love is a net

we wrap around our hearts like fish farmers casting

around unwilling tuna; us trawling paper doll limbs

safely towards death. She and I explore deep sea instead,

away from fake light, empty-sky-love. He wore a

cross around his neck every day and said God

breathed the stars like last night’s salmon. My

fingers felt the tapestry he wove fabricating fact

and fancy like it was okay to be ensnared.  Does religion

also feel like the open ocean? Shakespeare must have

lied when he tried to write love: it doesn’t die in

death; it dies in wanting.

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