Tianyi

Fermata

I.

At the close of my family
was a cello, the voice

all wren and shoulder—
wasn’t the whole point

to crawl again,
bleed new blood

wasn’t the whole point 
a bow is like longing—

until yesterday, I thought
beyond my father was nothing

but fists, I look up and fray,
through the window,

a second window,
and somehow, koi, fresh blue. 

—

II.

If, following each shadow
is a son seeping from dark
rib, my dead lynx chasing its own tail

leaping from box to lockbox,
July is a stopping place
almost saying my name—

ask me, after everyone who could remember
my birth had died, how they were:

open and stung,
lightless and stone

what it takes to scream
a name until it is pinched
against the sky.

If, when the earth
falls from its fruit knife
I am rivering out July,

door me: I have not laughed long
or believed in love, but even a
half clay urn can save a

sash of silk and blue, 
which is also hope
which I know is old.

Tianyi was raised in Hong Kong and is currently based in New York. His work is forthcoming in The Margins.