By: Karen Chen

Hold my hand as you walk to the river. Low ankles in dirt, 

your baby toes soggy and printed and perfect forever. 

Before going under, see: 

tectonic ice plates tinged green, like fat saturated in stew. 

Then let me borrow your obsolete eyes, 

their lids turned cold, their color accrued.

Now, above us is still-breathing sky, too much to soak up, a sun that has stalled. 

I wonder if airplanes see Legos or whether they see us at all.