I remember the cracked bones of the umbrella
by Cynthia Chen
New York University
Cynthia Chen is a bilingual poet based in New York City. Her poetry explores fantastical contemplations that bring out the reality in surreality. Currently a junior at NYU Tisch School of the Arts, she has been experimenting with various mediums to bring her poetic approach into including performances, documentary, and video art.
I remember the cracked bones of the umbrella
When you forget about the cracked bones of the umbrella splitting into half
You forget that fragility desires to be preserved
When you forget about the desire to be preserved
You forget the women who walked past you while talking on the phone: “everyone has something broken”
When you forget about the woman
You forget that you used to put the hair clipper on your arm and watch the claws leaving red marks around the purple veins
When you forget about the fading marks around the purple veins
You forget how you wished people’s souls to be more erotic, yours especially
When you forget about the impulse of eros
You forget that now you want to reside in a body, any body, intact and traceless
When you forget about wanting to reside in a body
You forget that you have already accepted the incompleteness of your flesh
When you forget about the acceptance
You forget about the old man selling roses to the street girl before the sunrise catches the last drip of darkness
When you forget about the old man
You forget that you went out to sell black blossoms on valentine’s day
When you forget about the black blossoms
You forget your faith in love builds upon ephemerality
When you forget about the ephemerality of love
You forget that you could have made love on the moon and kissed through debris
When you forget about the potential of having sex on the moon
You forget the breathings of cheap leather, sad but ecstatic
When you forget about the breathings of cheap leather
You forget the taste of your sorrow down your throat, skipping your tongue
When you forget about the taste of your sorrow
You forget that you used to have things to forget
When you forget about forgetting
You remember that fragility desires to be preserved