is the year you left & I was brought
back to life by your leaving.
The rain claps its long-fingered
hands above my face. Then claps
no more. This sudden wanting to be
watered & overcome by something
soft as a river nurtures me. Scabs
turn into quiet armours. All my wounds
are coded like myth. I’ve polished
the little diamonds of my regrets
into sharp stars & fed them to
the clockwork fish. Clack. Clack.
Their hearts clicking inside them,
the rhythm clear & metallic.
Gavin Yuan Gao is a Brisbane-based poet and translator educated in Queensland and Michigan. He enjoys the company of cacti and felines. His work is forthcoming or has appeared in New England Review, Voiceworks, Poet Lore and Michigan Quarterly Review.
