The World

Jennifer Chang

One winter I lived north, alone

and effortless, dreaming myself

into the past. Perhaps, I thought, words could replenish privacy.

Outside, a red bicycle frozeinto form, made the world falserin its white austerity. So muchhappens after harvest: the moonperforming novelty: slaughter,snow. One hour the sameas the next, I held my handsor held the snow. I was like sculpture, forgetting or, perhaps, rememberingeverything. Red wings in the snow, red thoughts ablaze in the warI was having with myself again.Everything I hate about the worldI hate about myself, even nowwriting as if this were a lawof nature. Say there were deerfleet in the snow, walking outthe cold, and more gingkoesbare in the beggar’s grove. SayI was not the only one who sawor heard the trees, their diffidencegreater than my noise. Perhapsthe future is a tiny flameI’ll nick from a candle. First, I’m burning.Then, numb. Why must every wintergrow colder, and more sure?