The echo returns not
The words
cease to resonate,
not my voice's fault
nor the walls,
it is the absence of
my yang,
sister self;
emerging,
new world
unsheathing its
unease:
there were two
cries of joy.
Reverberation or
affirmation,
and was there ever
a difference
in the sando shops
where we stole
tuna mayo onigiri,
or in the hospital,
where we were no longer
wide-eyed and
buck-toothed,
and you learned
your husband was infertile;
you hadn’t seen
your reflection
in years,
no matter how much
I tried
to see mine,
so in the bridges
where the futatsu dirty
faced bandits
used to roam;
one on the side
where the stars
could greet her
and the other
facing the earth
and its restraints,
only tremors
from our lips,
identical tones;
I was your shadow,
you, the moon.
Now; in the barren
cadence of one-half
of a voice,
with her half message,
the hitotsu
phantom warrior
cuffed herself
to the hand-made robes
and teary-eyed skies
of her memories.
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