aftermathBy Natalie Lim
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yesterday, I dreamed of windstorms, earthquakes,
warning sirens dancing in your rain. I mean that yesterday, I nightmared. give back the good news, the bedside table, the Post-it notes and Sharpie stains, all my favourite books. give me something to carry this grief downstream. let the floodgates burst, the waters rise— send tornadoes, forest fires, disasters more natural than forgetting how you liked your coffee. one cream, sugar melted at the bottom, swirled to nothingness as quickly as a storm dies. my apocalypse is loud, but brief. broken branches. just one mug to rinse. eighth gradeBy Natalie Lim
here is how I learned to dance:
a two-step, shimmy-shake, clap on two and four and twirl, sweaty hand-holding in the gym with older boys who rolled their eyes, but stepped in time all the same— a foot for each beat, the radio man calling the move. so we learned to trust each other, clammy hand in clammy hand, spinning bodies in formation on the floor as our gym teachers sipped cold coffee on the bleachers, remembered, perhaps, their own fingers from years ago, holding tight to friends who have since spun away into some other ballroom. when the music stopped, we vanished, floated off the floor like ghosts in search of love and outside air, and they stayed to shut the lights, eject the tape, wipe the mats with a chuckle: imagine being so young. imagine not knowing to regret that you ever let go. love lettersBy Natalie Lim
New York is a first-time lover: gentle, patient, forgiving
of every mistake. there is always a seat on the subway, a direct route home; my lost bag of museum souvenirs comes back to me safely, each mug wrapped tightly in crisp white sheets. we walk, sticky with sunscreen in the late August heat, taking endless photos upwards— old brick, warm stones, fire escapes promising new paths to the sky. I know New York is not good to everyone, but it is good to me. I burrow into its underbelly and the screech of metal on metal strips me to bone, runs through me like music. when the lights flicker, I flicker too. Natalie Lim is a Chinese-Canadian writer based in Vancouver, B.C., and the winner of the 2018 CBC Poetry Prize, with work published or forthcoming in Room Magazine, Honey & Lime Lit and PRISM international. She is an unashamed nerd and a believer in good bones. You can find her on Twitter: @nataliemlim.
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