Once, I remember,

Artwork by Nicole Zhang

By Emerald Lin

I took a moment of quietude and thought

it was love. I hold a blade to my heart and cleave

flesh from bone, graceful in its butchery—it struggles between us

like a fish you would not gut. I am waiting for the end to come. The sky

deepens, pink, failing, lovely because it will not last; the lights

are out; dusk, again, is falling. But let me begin

at the end. Mouth open around the shape of the words

we never said, I whisper across an ocean of summers. Now holding myself

still in the dark of the swaying bus, an ocean away; now remembering

the cicadas in chorus; now catching the shape of your back as the lights part

and fall behind—I reach out and we are fourteen, too shy

to touch, glances now tucked to ourselves, now lingering. Memories

rise like water. Time plucked just at the brink of ripeness, tart in the mouth, softness

to be ruptured—August, the slow, swelling heat held still

for a moment. And the sky, bruised just so, is beautiful, the lights come on

one by one, we are walking on this side of the street, dusk is settling.

It’s a familiar story. I step inside the cold river of time

and say hello. It’s a familiar story: dusk is settling, we are walking

on this side of the street, the lights come on one by one, and the sky, bruised

just so, is beautiful. August, the slow, swelling heat held still for a moment—

time plucked just at the brink of ripeness, tart in the mouth, softness to be

ruptured. Memories rise like water. I reach out and

we are fourteen, too shy to touch, glances now tucked to ourselves, now

lingering—now catching the shape of your back

as the lights part and fall behind; now remembering the cicadas in chorus; now

holding myself still in the dark of the swaying bus, an ocean away. I whisper across

an ocean of summers, mouth open around the shape of the words we never said.

But let me begin at the end. Dusk, again, is falling;

the lights are out; the sky deepens, pink, failing, lovely

because it will not last. I am waiting for the end to come. It struggles

between us like a fish you would not gut—I hold a blade to my heart

and cleave flesh from bone, graceful in its butchery. Once,

I remember, I took a moment of quietude

and thought it was love.

Emerald Lin is a third-year studying English and Ecology at NYU. They grew up in Taoyuan, Taiwan. They enjoy long walks and are currently slightly obsessed with birds. Their work has appeared in West 10th, Aromatica Poetica, Portrait, and Mercer Street.