Channel
Jessica Liu
Strange rafts quiver
on the surface of your face.
There, ripples bob up like air-
dense heads, knocking
each other into oblivion again.
This channel—open for how long?
Crossing each other in the night,
Laden with crated, festering exports.
Lacking strength to pry
your boxes open, I watch from the bank:
its black lip a remote perch,
dampening the crest of each wave.
Water swells wood apart,
a tumorous growth.
With salt fingers your tears caress
each undecided lattice of planks.