Yan Zhang

AUBADE

I won’t be able to tell you
unless I press my head to the ground.
My palms, my knees. When I lift
my hand, you draw away, lighter.
When I move it close, you darken.

We are symmetrical, but the ground is not
my mirror. In the mirror, I know
the line of symmetry. When I’m standing on
on the ground, the line moves
when I move. Like a mermaid, you float
along the brink of nothingness, dangling

from the only point we both touch.
I’m not with you. The dawn hits my back, comes

from behind, lets you slip ahead, spills
over my neck, under the bushes. Into the mud.
I smirk, then turn, turning you
with me. I run

towards a wall. You rise up, doubling.

Together, we fall backwards. Like a clamshell
tossed on the beach, we withered like autumn
leaves, still wet with midnight dew, waves offering
distant music. This isn’t normal. I know.

The distance between us sutures.

If there’s a moon, I wouldn’t know. Your face
darkens until it vanishes from sight.

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