SOPHIA TERAZAWA

No sweet milk loiters in memory of
taking the ferry down your collarbone.

A fictional life is almost alchemical, no?

Though the chemistry bumps you to mine.

              `


How long, for how long do I wait in this
pleasure? Though in enough longing

mountains return, and my baby has a name, all

fourteen years are quiet, long enough to wait.

              `


A planet dies here every other day.
When you cut grass I smell pleasure, milk

warming up our stove—isn’t that awful?

To love you nowhere near thirst, I’ve

wanted too much, fictional lives sweeter,
then, missing for the missing hurts less today

your collarbone with a scar, a shark’s tooth.

Be still. The heart’s banished without ceremony,
a kerosene lamp by nightfall facing north. Thick
rustling veils over distant gates have gone wailing.

The wick, face up on a card, portends hunger.
The card must be burned. Don’t make this difficult.
May you never come back asking about ma. Hurry,

someone waits to take you across. Arches have
fallen. Sandalwood perfumes cloth dyed
a storming blue. Cover my heart, not mine veiled

someone weights with bangles and good silk
across the lake that’s, really, heaven entombed.

Sophia Terazawa's favorite color is purple.