The World

New England Review - - Table of Contents - 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 froze into form, made the world falser in its white aus­ter­ity. So much hap­pens af­ter har­vest: the moon per­form­ing nov­elty: slaugh­ter, snow. One hour the same as the next, I held my own hands or held the snow. I was like sculp­ture, for­get­ting or, per­haps, re­mem­ber­ing ev­ery­thing. Red wings in the snow, red thoughts ablaze in the war I was hav­ing with my­self again. Ev­ery­thing I hate about the world I hate about my­self, even now writ­ing as if this were a law of na­ture. Say there were deer fleet in the snow, walk­ing out the cold, and more gingkoes bare in the beg­gar's grove. Say I was not the only one who saw or heard the trees, their dif­fi­dence greater than my noise. Per­haps the fu­ture is a tiny flame I'll nick from a can­dle. First, I'm burn­ing. Then numb. Why must ev­ery winter grow colder, and more sure?

Newspapers in English

Newspapers from USA

© PressReader. All rights reserved.