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An Astral Death


You realize you have been a time traveler for a while now.
You touched the edge of a time zone
with your breathing,
while nibbling on peanuts.
You pointed at the sky, the mouth of God,
his teeth sparkling against the endless cavern.
You said you were an ant, eyes frozen
on an indigo wave looming over the world.
(You reset every time
you move forward.)
Newspapers read you have not passed away
into posterity—meaning Pluto hasn’t caught a glimpse
of your hardened carbon fists shattering yet.
So here you lie;
truth rubbing the morning glory bruises
on your breasts. The purples will finish blooming
far from their picture frames,
those you once called home.




On You Loving


Love your neighbor as yourself,
this you read between papers made of onion skins, yellow and thin.
The Dead Sea flowed and dried up on your cheeks.
salt continued to pinch your eyes, secretly—
open up fissures for slivers of brackish water.
(May these sprout rolling beryl feet.
May these get lost in the blue forest of the sky.)

You love better from a distance:
a gap the size of wind
under a swallow’s wing.


Ae Hee Lee is South Korean by birth but lived in Peru for 14 years and studied in the U.S. for six. She is currently an MFA candidate in the creative writing and poetry program of The University of Notre Dame. Her poetry has appeared in Cha, Cobalt, Spark: A Creative Anthology, Ruminate, Day One, Duende, and Alice in Wonderland Anthology.

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