In ways of dissuasion and discontent, “Bleached hair,” pitched Dad, “forms dissonance” From those before— they’re memories Refrained, lost through broken psalms’ defense.” But turn I may with weeping disarray Aside my dazed mirror, I comb, I comb— Spurn the ill-placed photo: Grandpa clasped once by fire. Obscure the end, this I dream: to rest! to roam. Though gone, I play his last sustained breath: Must I comb my hair with this iron lyre to efface the heirloom remnant pains? These fallen strands I’ll blanch and dye. Here I’ll pick and I’ll pluck, hoping I’ll plead the tune of death to life Sweeping past loss, I’d separate Yet grief resolves none of this strife.
art | Davis Kurepa-Peers
My father’s words– though fake– I institute To lose my grief I’d compromise my tribute Still I find no salvation through forward steps. My psyche burns; I still looked back.
GUILT IN LIMBO, 5354
fh 21
by Michelle Zhang
