top of page

Lunar Abecedarian

—Helen Gu

Lunar Abecedarian

After the calamity I have to stop myself from shutting in;

bodies that feel weightless between between the fingertips,

collapsing under the strata. Bodies afloat that will never

die. Here we combust into debris; already we are

ephemeral. Your esoteric breath against my neck, your

fingerprints diamond rings, forever. Here, we can finally see

god. I am a shameless daughter, breaking away from

honor in so many ways; an outspoken daughter. Too many foreign

ideas in my head, but you silence me with just a breath, untumbled

jade against my cracking complexion. The cold warms me and your

kiss is my killer in the dimmer crevices. Tell me what it means to

love. Peel my fragile body till it shines waxen light like the

moon. I, too, have a dark side, only half of me luminous at once. Our

nexus, nebulous in the open air. I write the taxonomy of your touch

on my fingertips and memorize the ridges of your knuckles. Promise our

passion is more than poetry, promise that you will not stay

quiet here. You, stretching my margins, but I will

resile; fill the quiet as I swell. This seraphic movement mustn’t be a

sin; my elegies saturate the silent gaps. Sometimes I forget we will succumb to

time, but not now. Now we are colossal, undefeated,

undulating across the borders. Your breath against my ear, your

voice breeds my vanity. Under the napalm-filled sky we

wander in the dark. Fill me with fresh air in my

xenon-filled lungs. Wake me up over and over until I

yield. Away from the light of the sun our hearts reach their

zenith; above the galaxies, we embrace, witnessing.


HELEN GU is a writer in the Bay Area, California. Her work has been featured in Wingless Dreamer, Cathexis Northwest Press, and more. She is a national medalist in the Scholastic Art and Writing awards.

bottom of page