Abecedarian in secret murmurs
and I will tell you how I am the best liar in the world
but you will only shake your head no. Talk about being
conceited. A sister posed as crystalware, perched on the
dining table. One day she will learn to mimic stoicism,
emotionless and unrelenting. Is this what you want:
forgotten love letters, candle wax, all these mementos
gone. You suddenly begin asking too many questions.
Have you ever ridden the evening train to solitude?
Is there a vernacular for every loss you don’t know about
just yet? I find it strange, the way you look for answers by
kniving into a belly. Desperation. Nightfall dips into
lamplight and all I see is the curvature of your spine in
mossy silhouette, distilled in freshwater. Perhaps you are
not human, your limbs dissolving into moondust and
obsidian. For once I will tell you the truth, I was a
paleontologist in my past life. Mistaking limestone and
quartz for fossils. Chisel intricate ancestry on each
rubbled cartilage as if I will be remembered. Erased by
stillness, some unforgiving longing. Would you break
tradition for survival? Someday I will discover your ashes
under my fingernails and wonder where it all ended.
Victims in the making. I have almost grown too fond of
windsong, the slow crescendo of a sister’s death on the
xylophone, hypnosis. You shatter all aspirations with no
yearning for girlhood. I am awake, sunlight angled at the
zenith of your fingers. Too late, vaporized in muffles.
About Jessica Kim
Jessica Kim is a disabled poet from California. A two-time 2021 Pushcart nominee, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Wildness Journal, Cosmonauts Avenue, Grain Magazine, Longleaf Review, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, and more. She is the founding editor of The Lumiere Review. Find her at www.jessicakimwrites.weebly.com, or @jessiicable on twitter and instagram.