After the Rain

Hanyi Zhou, Hong Kong

I return to the woods after the rain, the slope

slick with crushed beetles and the kind of quiet

the ferns keep after bending too far towards the sun, forgetting

our names. Once, we dragged fallen branches from the brush, leaned

pine against pine, built a roof of leaves and stubbornness

and called it shelter. We crouched together, shoulder

to shoulder, the crevices of our palms dirt-streaked, bracing

as the walls leaned their whole trembling weight into us.

Now, the ground tilts differently. My feet slip

as the earth loosens from the topography of my own

remembering. Typhoons have rehearsed its erasure, stripped

the ground of its soil, stitched silence into its bark.

Only twigs remain, half-buried, awkwardly threading

stitches where they don’t belong. I stand too tall now, branches

scratching my shoulders, violent strangers. Somewhere, you walk

streets stacked with glass and concrete, your breath fogging

the face of another sky. There, the air carries wet moss

in its scent, the hollow ache of unfinished adventures. I search

for your footprints in the softening earth––but the rain swallows them

before my mouth can take the shape of your name.