The day I collected my soul, the cranberries lost their innocence, twining on my doorknob in a search for something sweet. It was nearly sunset, and the mole people scuttled underground with badges and tales of espionage, the orchards dripping with caterpillars. Dark clouds almost sang my feet to sleep when a splitting echo poured forth blood, and you rose to greet me from your magma coffin. I collected your rain, your torment, and dribbled your ashes on the floor in a crucifix. My clipped wings panged as I knelt before the God of Thunder. How soft, how secret your eyes were—how deeply they drank my light, and wafted blue-red before the gleaming mirror. You, who I loved, had become a wiser being than man. And I, who scraped each fallen fragment of you, prayed you would be free. Night died. Your spirit dissipated, your core singing against my chest. I wept before the broken statue. A whisper sang the trees to life.

 

© 2021 Vivian Li