"Unsung" by Stephanie Isan
Almost a decade ago you fled
like a wildfire of wallflowers.
My pane has clung onto the stains
of you, depression and iodine, the smoke
that stills of crusted refuse: your favorite
tea (shitty Lipton's), the hot sauce you
drenched over the crunch of cucumbers (Lee Kum
Kee chili), the sound of your laugh (throaty, with
a chance of jingle). You were centerpiece
and table leg on my furniture rearranged and
the charred scent of you, cradling an armrest,
fades when I wake. Forgive or condemn
(whatever man), but to go back is to run
over a corpse with a hearse. And isn't it ironic
(we sing)? A deliverance. Entrails twist,
linger. Only bone remains in cremation. Molars
curled fetal amidst curses and disintegration.
Death in the foundation, permeates. But the body,
written in the pipes, cannot be found. Aerate with
time, sea salt, open windows. A-missing is
not a-needing, but a waxing in wanting. If you
haunt your way back (not), don't knock.
Just come in, ashes and all.
Stephanie Isan (she/they) is a queer Taiwanese American writer, poet, and software engineer. Her work is published and/or forthcoming in The Bellevue Literary Review, jmww, and Frontier Poetry. She hates cucumbers and her favorite tea is jasmine, preferably iced, unsweetened, and with boba. You can find out more about her @ stephanieisan.com.
