KJ Li

Aubade at the End of the World

It seems foolish to say so now: I did not imagine ruin
could be so shining. In my mother’s hometown, white
ash melts against cracked tongues, generations
of voices folded into every speck. Here, on this distant

earth, the horizon gutted by a shade of flame
that scours the sky of any lesser light. Bright
as any paradise. When we cast our last misshapen
prayers against the mirrored dark, we did not

yet recognize worship as a slower means
of burning. In sufficient light,
even the gods can become
any common animal. How many lifetimes

we have forfeit trying to undo
this transformation: making
and remaking what burns us, plotting
ways to get to heaven when we die

and no sooner. When the last child comes
upon this earth, may they come empty
of such hunger. Everything we built is brilliant
to no end. We were not made

to think of ourselves as splendid.
When the gods burned among us, animals
touching animals, we could not understand this
as other than tragedy. To exist, to be witness here

amongst so much vanishing, must be a sin
or a miracle. Or every miracle
is also sin. Against what, the shining gods
won’t say.

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KJ Li is an LGBT+ Chinese-American raised in central Texas. She currently lives in Washington, D.C., where she takes long walks and misses the family cat. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Shade Journal, Overheard Lit, Chestnut Review and others—more can be found at https://kjli.carrd.co/.