Dorothy Chan’s Editor’s Note: A Triple Sonnet for Valentine’s Day

Dorothy Chan’s Editor’s Note: A Triple Sonnet for Valentine’s Day

            Table for ten at dim sum is my V-Day dream,
like when lovers & lobsters & lollipops are
            on the menu—Suck a little harder, and I’ll race
you to the center of the Tootsie Pop. Cherry.
            Good. Hard. Classic. Center, like the volta
of a poem blasted to the nth degree, or how
            we get the pop in poetry, become the moment—
I want to crescendo into your dreams, Honey,
            play you a little song—a sonnet—triple it,
like when Milo from The Phantom Tollbooth
            conducts an orchestra that becomes sunrise
and sunset, and you stop in the gallery, move
            a little closer to the strokes, feeling the white space
in between. At night, I dream of touch and the sound

you make as you yearn—it’s not about needing
           something, it’s about wanting everything, like sugar
and spice and sundaes sprinkled with gummy snakes
            and the whole damn dream sequence delivered to
your doorstep, right next to the bouquet of O’Keeffe
            and the Godiva Gold Collection. I dream about rivers,
abundant. Or what about the simulation game when
            your male lead says his apartment number is “214,
like Valentine’s Day,” and he thinks it’s poetry.
            But it’s not. No one dictates “romance” to you.
Rita and I used to devour sushi boats and sake
            cocktails, in our twenties, on this day, two Asian
femmes—this holiday of love. And there’s nothing,
            nothing we love more than the Hive, so this one’s

            for you, Honeys. Christina believes each issue
should be celebrated with an Aperitivo and brunch,
            and isn’t she such a dream, and don’t we eat with
our eyes, first. And who would ever say no to endless
            pleasure—bottomless pineapple mimosas, pastries
galore: chocolate ganache cake with raspberries on
            top, coconut cake snowballing its way through,
matcha cake with red bean filling serving orgasm,
            and every type of benedict and crepe in sight, and
pour some more bubbly, Honey, and it’s straight
            out of a movie set or TV show about excess from
the early 2000s, only we’re not leaving until we eat.
            Cheers to Lucky Number 3, Hive, and thank you for
all this love and light—every single yearning quenched.