Sunday News
Ruoyu Wang
Sorry that every conversation with you
is one for the reader; it’s always another
theory about love. And sorry that I dug your name
there, in our rest, at our wake. Sorry about
what happened, though nothing
ever did. I have no alibi. No truth,
no eye to thread through. Only these vows
proclaiming my faith is bound to a lamppost, somewhere
along the way home. Really, I just wanted
to know if we’re something to thumb at, if you’d
smile for something whole. This rust and light
could coin us gold in a slit of dark. Somewhere, there is a direction
to this lighthouse. But these days, Rilke says You need to go
outside! so I bury well and eat better. Three meals seaside in a
glass house and everything
you don’t like. This grocery list a criminal record. This wind
whipping around the coast like a confession you don’t know
what to call, but why don’t I make it easier
for you. Raising this white flag. It was always
something slow, like a novel French translation that’s slurred and
sober and all the more endearing. Or like a song on the radio
promising all the same things: only a little water, just a little love,
just a few tries. I can’t lie, watching your face still fall in season.
You still witness all the centuries,
all the crime. I could be a killer,
but I couldn’t hate the moon. I couldn’t not wait, still,
for the arrow to come straight through.
The crossword and coffee and news.
You and your right hand—
man, I know how this goes. You don’t really miss me.
About the writer
Ruoyu Wang (王丽扬) is from Washington state. Their poetry appears or is forthcoming in The Shore, Interstellar Lit, and antinarrative zine, among others. You can find them curating Spotify playlists, being an avid sock-wearer, drinking matcha, or @wangwrites_ on Twitter.