Amy Wang
before the funeral
It is the kind of night that makes me want to strip bird bones
into hollow, the kind of night that makes me want to gouge
a river out of the cliffside and walk into it with rubbled
pockets. It is the kind of night that makes salt stream in silk
banners. The hospital tastes like goodbye. As if you could
swallow down mourning before it even lodges between tongue
and teeth. The two of us waiting, inevitable unfurled into the
orange-sweet of tomorrow. My last request; tie me down like a
song. Like bare skin and creased paper. As if the space
between throat and spine and breathing could be bent in two.
Hours cut through us like tangents, like paper petals folded over.
A hand has been dealt; aces, or maybe not. We peel queen
from tongue, jack from pinky, tracking obituaries signed into
existence. Before the funeral; you, shuffling the cards as if you
could wash them clean, as if there is anything as gentle as a
winning play. Me, eyes shut, as if there is anything as sweet as
reliving this final loss. Forget the cold. Bring a palm up to
clasp, flowers to scatter over a grave. between elegies and
mourning hymns, the two of us have had our pick of grief.
Together, we decorate housefires and melt the littlest
snowman; winter chill has nothing on coffin and a world
whirring sideways.
into hollow, the kind of night that makes me want to gouge
a river out of the cliffside and walk into it with rubbled
pockets. It is the kind of night that makes salt stream in silk
banners. The hospital tastes like goodbye. As if you could
swallow down mourning before it even lodges between tongue
and teeth. The two of us waiting, inevitable unfurled into the
orange-sweet of tomorrow. My last request; tie me down like a
song. Like bare skin and creased paper. As if the space
between throat and spine and breathing could be bent in two.
Hours cut through us like tangents, like paper petals folded over.
A hand has been dealt; aces, or maybe not. We peel queen
from tongue, jack from pinky, tracking obituaries signed into
existence. Before the funeral; you, shuffling the cards as if you
could wash them clean, as if there is anything as gentle as a
winning play. Me, eyes shut, as if there is anything as sweet as
reliving this final loss. Forget the cold. Bring a palm up to
clasp, flowers to scatter over a grave. between elegies and
mourning hymns, the two of us have had our pick of grief.
Together, we decorate housefires and melt the littlest
snowman; winter chill has nothing on coffin and a world
whirring sideways.
Biography
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Amy Wang (she/her) is a writer from California. She's a prose editor for the Farside Review and a poetry editor for Augment. In her free time, you can find her reading fanfiction. Reach out to her on Twitter at @amyj_wang.
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