wildscape. literary journal

The Red Slip Says “THIS BUS HAS BEEN CHECKED FOR SLEEPING CHILDREN”
by Emily Tong

but from here half the phrase is unforgiven,
loves the fine warmth of our dead instead. 
There is so much of December left 
to kill, all that stolen breath
to divide into my body. Through double
panes, the moon is a figment
of the sky/stars/moon, beckoning
the beginning of a space movie from the second 
seat in the back. The one where a girl clutches 
a toy rocket and smiles, despite the smell. And 
guess what: I was still alive 
for all this. Hope was a limping 
squirrel on the side of the highway, a mile away
from my house. My Ma called once,
twice, while I was dreaming of learning
how to dance. We were wild as red forest
berries, immortal on silver pavement—I woke
with half a waltz in my bones. The other
half had decided it was sick of being left
behind, sick of winter, sick from winter,
sick of running out of things to walk away
from and waiting for itself along with
everything else. Air had decided to pull
the miracle, floating, from memory. Sometimes,
I think I could’ve lived like that forever.

about the author // Emily Tong