Untitled

Before I slip

into the destiny

of drainage,

I take one last

look

at you, dealer of luck

pink ankles like salmon caught

between

the torment of stream, and the torture

of creation,

hurling their bodies

into waterless

abandon, forgetting

that what awaits

is the cruel

argument

of death. Young girl,

where are you going?

This

is the last

light

of my short life. Do you

hear it too? Fate

teetering on your

skin, as you pull

back

the curtain

and step out of the bath.

Michelle Chan