For Li Qing Zhao by Anna Yin1 min read

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For Li Qing Zhao
by Anna Yin

I cup your shadow
with blue fire;
across the ocean,
the wind tastes more salty.

The white is whiter,
and whiter…
the cold is colder,
and colder…
In the early autumn,
I fail to explain to those
who read your poems in accents.

They chase me with questions―
how we Chinese women,
footsteps no sound,
hairbun so high,
shy away from strangers.

Well, clouds are overhead.
I catch ink drops
on my skin―
a trace of moon.

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