Sun Shih-Min

★ ★ ★ ★


Image by Nsey Benajah

Like a fine, tattered, fragment of earth lay the branches

Like a fine, tattered, fragment of earth lay the branches. (The fingers, the flowing touch.) I covered myself. And my toes all tied with one another.
Covered, decomposing, inbound, leaking. And all I could see was her hair (shaved, shaved, everything fell slowly, like autumn, like wind, in silent). Perhaps I should turn the abundant rain into the shades of floating memories Of you Everything should be taken away, and her marriage will go back to the beginning, at that time she was pregnant, and she had a lover, not a husband, or a lover, the arms, shoulders are the endless mountain. It can bear all clouds, kiss the rain, lift the shadow of the moon.
All, shine in her and then be born.

Shih-Min, Sun lives and writes in Taipei, Taiwan. Her work has appeared and will be presented in publications including, The Academy of the Heart and Mind, Dadakuku, Rural Fiction Magazine, and has been selected for Atlanta Review 2022 International Poetry Competition in Merit Award. She received a B.A. in Fine Art and started writing while working abroad, inspired deeply by family, trainers & friends. She loves writing as a way to interpret still life and scenes of bond through language.Visit her on Instagram: @aura_a_u_r_a


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