Claire He

so when the sun bids farewell, the coin falls first. copper thread spindles between your fingers as if you’re weaving a fable, skin flaking with it. there is a prayer, somewhere between your larynx and your tongue. you don’t know if the god—surely not yours—hears it above the torrent. pinching foil between your nails, you dust the deck with trimmed corners, as if pollen in the arbour you leave behind, as if sacrosanct stories in the hands of missionaries. in the last sliver of daylight, you tip forwards.

your name as binomial nomenclature. your body, suspended in the storm. make yourself a ship of theseus: will you be replaced with something exquisite?