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—Bella Zhou


           for A.

I imagine the forest in sun. Sometimes

yesterday is a flower drying on the windowpane,

sometimes an apple.

I wrote again in the thick of June.

I thought of us, fast-pressed,

into the leaves of a book.

Sometimes I forget it is not skin,

but the canopy is so tender.

Sometimes I don't dare turn my eyes

away from morning,

a sky washed with hurt.

Let me dream of birds falling

into the gentle hands of the horizon.

This way I feel at home. Yesterday

a purple bruise crept up my leg, and I,

unaware, thought of you.

If you are a tree, then let it fall over you,

that light, morning, blue.


BELLA ZHOU lives in Vancouver. She is the editor-in-chief of The Greyhound Journal. Her poems can be found in GASHER, Jet Fuel Review, and elsewhere.

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