MIGRATION
CINDY SONG
Nothing quite sounds the same after the swans
leave. The lake does not easily forget, bubbling
underneath starved weeds and moldy paint. You &
Tian never liked those damn birds, white necks
stretched thin as the Marlboros rolling around
the floor of your car. I'd snap them. Feel the bones &
feathers crushed under my fingers. Nothing quite
says rebirth like your handpicked rocks that go
skip, skip, skip across the water. The ripples make
me think like a cygnet embryo—born in God's hand
only to find the world shattering apart first thing.
Tian says the swans go wherever it snows, but I
say they fly wherever Liberty cracks the sky open.
leave. The lake does not easily forget, bubbling
underneath starved weeds and moldy paint. You &
Tian never liked those damn birds, white necks
stretched thin as the Marlboros rolling around
the floor of your car. I'd snap them. Feel the bones &
feathers crushed under my fingers. Nothing quite
says rebirth like your handpicked rocks that go
skip, skip, skip across the water. The ripples make
me think like a cygnet embryo—born in God's hand
only to find the world shattering apart first thing.
Tian says the swans go wherever it snows, but I
say they fly wherever Liberty cracks the sky open.
CINDY SONG is 16 years old and a high school junior living in Rockville, Maryland. Her poetry and prose have been recognized by the National Poetry Quarterly and the PTA Reflections program. In addition to writing, she likes going outside for walks, working on paintings, and catching up on her favorite shows.
