by Nicolette Wong
We have arrived at a shaft of blindness. In the backyard where the birds split and sing, in a thousand directions, against the chalkboard of a dark sky. When the wind burns and embers fall, you reach for the nylon strings to stop my silence.
Tie me up and leave me here, you say. The stone will grow and lose its color in the sun.
No one would see the hanging statue as it fades. Only the scars around your wrists would drift, dark waves of music circling the air. Houses of love; houses of hatred; houses of icicles melting in places you have never belonged.
I tie the knots around your hands. This is how we let it die.