Sophie Yu

on the windowsill, a tank tips
and overflows into the sea. Little fish flutter
and twitch, slipping away, slipping back into my veins.

four years & this apartment hasn’t changed one bit
except i’m older and they’re older, and suddenly
watching kids channel 18 isn’t as fun
anymore. suddenly popsicles are
calories and i can’t sleep because the bed
scrapes my spine and the ac blows my toes
cold, peeking out from the mustard quilt, checkered
with plum blossoms through midnight.

honestly, i think i’ve forgotten how to
play the piano. how do you complete
the square? how do i say “sorry for
the delay” in mandarin, nicely? give me a break,
shatter the clock. how many sheep are
too many sheep? the shadows keep shifting.

i am a person brainwashed by tv, lazy-
go-sleep, eat: a day passes again. praise myself
for watering my grandpa’s wilting
rhododendrons and spending money
on pretty things at malls full of characters
I cannot read—that’s how I spend
my time. again, i’ve written nothing today.

at two in the morning, my laptop screen still
stares at me and i stare back until
one of us surrenders first

at four, my grandpa waddles over
to a thick stack of fading books
and a rusty row of mugs. he rearranges them
over    over    over
and     and  and 
by the time he’s done
i’ve already fallen asleep.