The Fiddleback

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I wish we were still bees—
swarming together, thinking

together, dying
for each other. Eight

gasping fish, swimming naked
in the green river.

But then came our mother
with a knife. Our mother

was steel. Had to rub fresh ginger
in her eyes to cry before the guards.

So they let us board the train, but not
together. A mother’s choice.

My left behind ghosts.
There are things siblings

do not talk about. Who got
the breast, and who got the bottle.

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Originally from Philadelphia, Lillian Kwok now lives in Sweden and is a student in the low-residency program at Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her work has appeared in Silk Road, Controlled Burn, CHA, and other journals.

 

Volume 2, Issue 5 Back to top