Amelia Yuan

first light

when the fire catches, all of you
is the first to go. birthday cards, limp converse laces, dead
split ends. things you taught me to shed. when you see me
sleeping, i won’t dream of bird wings

anymore, of hollow sprouted bones and takeoff.
i know a path likes to hold me
more than the open sky’s breathing.
you said you brought me into a waiting

world, an exhale being postponed
so my hands became your hands
your tomorrows the fiber of my body.
in december, no crows wake me

and i get to skip the funeral of my dreams
once, wanted to exit this home and find
snow for the first time.
i hate loving a sky that doesn’t change

in these winters, hate the breath that it steals
from an overworked engine long out of gasoline
i stare at mothers who pull fleece-lined
hats onto bobbing heads and miss you

intermittently. the mirror eats me up in stages
these days, only painting a slow disposition
the shrinking of a waist
and dried up cheekbones waiting

to be filled again with salt. the laundry room
and its dryer always linger for another round
of centimeters to seize, another self to bring to light
don’t think about the evenings I stand just

beyond the overture yellow light of the bathroom
the space between my ribs metabolizing late
white lilies and what it is to forget yourself
when the soles of your shoes wear thin.

________________________________________________________________________________________

Amelia Yuan is a high school senior from the Bay Area. She is an alumna of the Sewanee Young Writers’ Conference, the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio and The Adroit Journal’s Summer Mentorship Program. Her work has been recognized by the National Scholastic Art & Writing Awards and The New York Times.