prelude
what i once said, what i never meant
an entire night
bursting with skeletons
& all i can hear
is your heaving. today
is the worst day
of your life.
you ask me to leave it
gaping of you.
instead we run.
the begged earth
at our misplaced feet.
from above the city,
you push the weight
of this
into the hardened
clay, into me,
& that’s okay.
across miles & miles
i have made this mouth
for you, a railing
to pull you up.
quiet now, my friend.
you do your best work in the dark.
the brightest spark
forgets itself in too strong
a sun & our hearts, our hands
keep going & rebuild,
steady
in the absence of light.
Tyler Tsay is a student at Williams College. His work, both past and upcoming, has been/will be published in The Offing, BOAAT, The Margins: Asian American Writers Workshop, Sibling Rivalry Press, Red Paint Hill, and others. He is the recipient of the Bullock Poetry Prize, awarded by the Academy of American Poets and judged by Camille Rankine, and the Editor in Chief of The Blueshift Journal. When not doodling, collecting quills, or composing cello pieces, he loves a good view, though having an atrocious fear of heights. And yes, fezzes are definitely cool.