Poem by Amanda Wan
summer has a way of making
me feel small and hard. everything
that hurts does so more slowly.
somehow i become my migraine,
floating ghost split into a thousand
glass marbles scattered across the floor,
the scent of water gripping my stomach,
sun-twisted knots tightening
across my eyes.
when i drift out of my skin and
it is difficult to breathe,
i remember that birds
have hollow bones. i imagine
being held together by air,
some bizarre graft that keeps me
from dissolving into wind.
only in my end notes
could i unravel under
an open sky, limbs reaching
upwards as the tree branches,
tracing songs of circles on an
endless blue ceiling.
i shout my questions into a distant
kaleidoscope, a sharp-edged nausea:
if i sleep towards an end, slip into
the green, would the green have me back?
the colours of movement are
so much brighter than i