where mist collapsed into a child’s abdomen
when there were too few patterns
where there was a warm body to bite into
when there were too many children to bear
where the river’s anger was ours to drink
when cleaving was softer than closure
where nobody shuddered at the beast’s grin
when our invitations were always to run
where our land had not split into squares
when we had never walked
where we pounded ourselves to shadows
when the cave closed its mouth
where i first lied that my palms were red
when there was no word for your plunder
because you thought your god could birth himself
when it did not rain for twelve days
where a stone came in place of the baby
when cries cascaded on the thirteenth
where blood burst upstream of the uterus
when you asked the gods for oil and a gift
where there was a body trying to live
when smoke rose no higher than the stake
where red was closer to blue than orange
when the wishbone spasmed on splitting
where my nightgown hung on the crucifix
when you mistook the birds for angels
where i had already found my home
when the wings we built were a covenant
where forgiveness was every girl’s synonym
when the need for air strangled into birdsong
where it spilled, gluttonous as water
Ziyi Yan (闫梓祎) is a Chinese writer. Her work is published in Poetry Northwest, Rust and Moth, Kissing Dynamite, and Peach Mag, among others. She is also the editor-in-chief of the Dawn Review. You can find her on Instagram and Twitter @Ziyiyan___ or visit her website at https://ziyiyan.carrd.co/