Yuyuan Huang
Smoke Signal
after “Elegy” by Natasha Trethewey
I think by now the smoke has
cleared. Early August and
I see it as it is: dew
glinting on the leaves, fog on
a mirror, choking. That morning,
quiet and heavy in our silence,
we drove by the lake and found
each other in the car–you
in the front, I staring back.
You must remember the condensation
I mistook for burning
hovering on the surface, or perhaps
the way the words lay thick
between us like a blanket,
suffocating. All day I was watching
you and you turned
the back mirror to avert
my gaze, leather seats rising
in a wall like an illusion. In silence
we stirred the embers.
Perhaps you recall the time
you chased me
into my bedroom, blazing,
and I coughed and
crawled my way
through the door before the
fumes could swallow me. Because I craved
the release, I confess,
I thought about the past, refusing
to be put out–forgotten
medication on the counter,
fever lost in translation,
our genetic predisposition
to pain. I imagine you
in that ship, finding refuge in a child
who is never born,
fleeing disaster like wind, burning
like you could never stop,
and I know now
why we are both so afraid
of the warmth of the flame.
you are an inferno
and I am paralyzed
in your grip, but still
I try to take it all in, trying
to understand for you why
you raised this daughter smoldering.
What does your conflagration
matter if I cannot strike the match,
light the flare? The spark flees
into the night. You burn me and
I bury the flame.
Yuyuan Huang is a young poet from the Boston area. Her work has previously been published in the Blue Marble Review, Paper Crane Journal, and the Ice Lolly Review, among others. She has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards since 2020. She is constantly searching for new wonders.