Three Poems

By: Catherine Siu

in july, the evening wind is a cool departure          

                 it’s purple.          drawn out, as white hot          
exhale. like koi,        escape consciousness by swimming 
in air. dancing rain.        see the sky, how the beluga moves                  
against sweet summer grass,                                                                
stalks breathing in ripples.        july,                              
the air caught                 
against a fishhook moon.                        
jagged silence.               

                                                                                      it’s a burning mist,     it’s a blueberry twilight.
purple mashed heat, water     smearing stripes    
of dirt.     the cicadas call,                                 
chafing wing and bone                             
into bowls of star felled light.    

                                   summer dreaming,                                       
at the end the hooked line,                                                  
the grounding wire lures                                        
mackerels to clouds.          see,                                        
the dew skittering on stone–                    
it’s thunder and sublimation:                               
beyond the pale,      it’s open.          


“that violet hook holding two complete thoughts, two complete bodies without subjects”
– Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous


           in the flat black,      

                                 the falling rain is fluttering heart beats passing through the quiet.

                       the palms

                                 flattened to catch the countdown, the hovering rumble before waves.

these are the days of flood, when raindrops catch heavy and entwine,

                                                                                          psalms that sharpen themselves.


           the tongue doesn’t lie about salt or sap.   between this light and the next,

                                                                        blind eyes shattering haze to dawn,           

                                                                                          the wind will sing of violet clouds,    rolling rushes.


           our breath overlaps into commas, into dewdrops stained in negative.

                                              like wing on water,      like fever-trace,      surrender and go.

I curl
into this pool
of dianhong,
let steam erase
the mirrored world.
through the glass,
a sun blessed warmth
presses on lidded eyes
that see into the edges
of heaven,
the corners
of ocean. if only
amber can soften
into snow,
the touch
wrinkled and bitter.
still, the sepia moon
reaches in.
sweetness, a ripple

Catherine Siu was born in a hospital that that no longer exists. Hailing from NYC, she spends too much time researching, watching, eating food. Now a senior at Johns Hopkins University studying Molecular and Cellular Biology, she’s running amok through the food scene in Baltimore. This is her first publication ever, and she’s excited to see where life takes her next. Preferably something involving a cat.