Afterimages by Mackenzie Duan

It is spring again and the sky
is unpossessable. Someone I will love

touches me with the bluest hands
like mist billowing into 

a terrible, gleaming future. 
Where our children cartwheel in a field 

striated with weeds and ribbons 
of birds loop around the periphery,

wanting what I want, 
a way to beat an image

into brightness.
Behind us, the hills 

slope in brushstrokes over a lake,
soft and washed out, like the place 

fires go after burning. 
Our bodies become stations of light

when the sun dips.
I surrender to an engine-low breeze,

the chance of violins, 
swans just out of frame.

The lake rocks the moon. 
The moon rocks my pale blue ache. 

It is so shameful
for anything to persist: 

graffiti, oil pastels,
a dying flame.

In the morning, dragonflies 
crowd against the glass, choking

each other. Minor wars go on. 
My heart cannot help 

but follow,
beating when the blue wings touch.