Illustration by Eileen Gao and Lily Ha
Last week I lived like a child:
lime room, then purple room
in the afternoon. A custard for lunch,
deep fried monsters in the night.
And your diagnosis burst
through in thick flakes
while I lived like a child
7,781 miles away from you, having
naps instead of classes.
Still, you joked:
this is the best cancer to get.
Your butterfly glands glowed
in the sonography.
Two lights and a moon,
glorious white wings
glide-ready and I stand,
your phone-face glassen and
lagged in the lamp light.