"Floral Mist" by Vian Borchert
Mimi Yang | Migration for Cowards
I used to count my days ‘til eighteen, wash down dreams
of my father with futures shelved as promises. In this one, a flat
in Dublin and a bookcase we fight over—in another, a duplex
in New York that smells of summered hair or plane engines
bent on departure. At my birthday party years ago
when no one came, he said love is mostly fickle, god-
wit-small, selfish without vacancy for you or me. I wanted to believe
he was lying, but I couldn’t, so I blew out the candles & wished
for candytuft clusters burst into disappearing cities, under
the wings of departing planes. I tried giving names
to his anger: sorrow, sickness, silk seas laid flat over language
borders. Sympathy slowing the house fire. This fall, a boy
I wanted to love six years ago said he missed me
and meant it. He was named after my grandfather’s favorite war
hero, knows nothing of the city I need to abandon or his place
in my poetry, the white ibis hateful of the rising ocean,
and he never will. I miss him too, then, his promise of Rome
at the end of every road leaving suburbia. My idiot heart
can miss anything it no longer remembers, dream of departure
that leaves no witnesses. Sometimes I worry no one has been saved
by distance alone. But most days I can’t even bring myself to leave.
of my father with futures shelved as promises. In this one, a flat
in Dublin and a bookcase we fight over—in another, a duplex
in New York that smells of summered hair or plane engines
bent on departure. At my birthday party years ago
when no one came, he said love is mostly fickle, god-
wit-small, selfish without vacancy for you or me. I wanted to believe
he was lying, but I couldn’t, so I blew out the candles & wished
for candytuft clusters burst into disappearing cities, under
the wings of departing planes. I tried giving names
to his anger: sorrow, sickness, silk seas laid flat over language
borders. Sympathy slowing the house fire. This fall, a boy
I wanted to love six years ago said he missed me
and meant it. He was named after my grandfather’s favorite war
hero, knows nothing of the city I need to abandon or his place
in my poetry, the white ibis hateful of the rising ocean,
and he never will. I miss him too, then, his promise of Rome
at the end of every road leaving suburbia. My idiot heart
can miss anything it no longer remembers, dream of departure
that leaves no witnesses. Sometimes I worry no one has been saved
by distance alone. But most days I can’t even bring myself to leave.
Mimi Yang is a student poet currently residing in Shanghai. Her work has been recognized by the Alliance for Young Artists and Writers and the UK Poetry Society, and appears or is forthcoming in Palette Poetry, Rust & Moth, and elsewhere.
Vian Borchert is an established artist and poet exhibiting in the US & internationally. Vian is a Notable Alumni from Corcoran GW University. Borchert exhibits in museums and key galleries in major cities like NYC, DC, LA, London. Borchert's art is in embassies and collections worldwide, along with vast coverage in publications. Borchert is an art educator in the Washington DC area. Borchert's artwork can be acquired via "1stDibs" and "Artsy" marketplaces with auctions. Website: www.vianborchert.com
