ELLEN ZHANG

Winter’s Coming

Winter rubs hard, calloused hands
upon honey husks.
Summer's knotted palms hold heaviness,
frosty sheen become veins to mingle.
She has barely cracked open.
So gentle and sweet. In
another lifetime, we would call it
malleable to every contour.
There is fumbling and breaking of
apple blossom, apricot heavy breath.
A trail of broken sinew, there is
slippage on the pale lip of the moon,
nursing of darkening brows.
When the farmers arise the next morning,
sand is still sunken in their eyes.
They groan with weary dread
of what they know and do not know.
Silence encapsulates agony even as
what has happened is washed away.
Even the rain is inebriated.