WINTER MOON

i am standing in this tiny house off the edge 

of a wind-shaven hill. from the shedding cabinet, i pluck 

a broken mug i did not drop—water no longer reverberates

between my drying lips the way it did when

summer wind peeled towards his skin broiling beneath 

perception in the far corner of our tamped bedroom

where i moved from cracked palms of his foot to folding mountains 

of his spine to leafing fingers twisted across the rug, not knowing

the unquiet rustling of paper between his thumbs. the air is

not silent, now. he swam with me in the oasis, where 

i did not hear the lapping. he ran with me 

up the trail. i did not hear the panting. this evening

between cold arms on the sheet, i search for the new moon who, 

without warning, has disappeared. 

i find her singing in the hole of my body. 

AUTHOR: Tyki Cantu-Wang
ARTIST: Amy Kim