By leandre huang
morning; a golden twine she threads
with her fingers, it bakes her walls,
lights the waking spears streaming through
the glass, she welcomes it lovingly
into her home, the shadows blooming
as her children return. she hears
the solemn rhythm of their footsteps,
she listens to her name in the curses
on their tongues, their presence summoned
by the sunlight. she puts away their plates,
letting the longing sour in her empty throat.
rainfall; she gives them her rest,
a perfume dripping petrichor and slumber
diffusing beneath the cracks of their doors. for once
they are grateful, the siren song of white noise
and quiet voices sweetly lulling them into her
embrace. the rain is her liquid love, it slides
down her sides, it seeps into the crevices
of their listless hearts, it blankets her children,
away from the torrent of wind and fog
they are safe with her,
even if they do not remember
after the showers cease.
evening; she watches them leave once more,
she seeks out the last of their distant
shadows, beyond locked rooms and greying
blocks. the afterglow takes pity on her,
it paints the sky a sunset mural, a farewell halo
that makes her children pause, wonder,
almost hesitant to go. this is the moment
a mother looks back on—their bittersweet
longing, the hope of being remembered.
her soul finds itself in echoing walls,
her heart flush with glowing contentment,
for she knows she has weathered it all,
and soon, her children will return.
leandre huang is a year 4 literary arts student in School of the Arts. she lives in an abyss of unfinished poetry and prose but very much desires to finish them one day. generally preferring prose, she seeks to find beauty in the little things and shape them into words. in her free time, she reads too much fiction and opens blank google documents waiting for inspiration.