Seventh Month, Lunar

For V

The misty poets wash the mountains in aftertaste tea. When you felt the fault lines’ broken testimony, you buried yourself in the Cangshan to give us a way through. I am in here, the wind sang between us in two languages. Wo dong ni de yi si.

I lost my Ithacas; I cry in the dark; I make all of my mothers lonely. We sit on fire in our paper boats. Something is making us sad, but we cannot say what ghost.

Jessica Brofsky is an English PhD student at Princeton. Her work has appeared in After Happy Hour Review, Marginalia, and Notes.