xiaole zhan
June
When it rained through the cold light,
in the snowless city where I grew up,
we called it a sunshower.
Where winter was always June,
or July, and we ran outside
in the sun and the feathering rain
to smell the fresh wet asphalt.
Our child-eyes were churchfuls of glass.
When the soft glow of ambulances were
mild somnambulists in the dark
carrying someone else’s father.
When there was marvel in tragedy—
winged, starry, meteor-struck
pterodactyl! And we gathered
our quarter-ages in the schoolyard
and won at being alive longer.
Our memories were empty
and enormous. We accepted the
unanswerables as we did
the kindness and malice of
parents. Oh, long
unsayable winter.
Memory’s soundless
footfall. Somewhere
the first snow, the
city beneath snow—
the remembering
that comes before
forgetting.
september
i’m drinking to the summer
humming with a mouthful of blood
remembering the last time i
wanted something so bad i
screamed into song, teenaged, grass-
grazed, & injured
with hunger, bitten
by mosquitoes &
guitar strings, when
the nights were stormwarm
& i always felt like i was
missing out on something, buckled
in the backseat while mum
drove us by mission bay &
people kissed &
ate fish & chips, &
glimmered
by christmas lights
strung too early &
now
i’m walking
across the big empty
parking lot of queen
vic market where
the buildings loom &
sparkle like tall
docked ships going
nowhere &
the carcasses are
strung overnight
like violins & i
want to text
everyone i know
don’t leave me
never leave me out
& tell them they’re just
the words of
a song.
Xiaole Zhan is a Chinese-New Zealand writer and composer currently based in Naarm where they are completing their third year of university studies. They are the winner of the 2023 Kill Your Darlings Non-Fiction Prize and the Landfall Young Writers’ Essay Competition.