Ash Wednesday
Quang Vo
“People’s memories are maybe the fuel they burn to stay alive”
—After Dark, Haruki Murakami
All we had left
were cordless memories—
butterfly faces
pinned to hotel windows.
This year, the East Coast
is a cold-blooded reptile,
and the ashes fixed
on our foreheads
depict specks of you and I
stargazing
on your parents’ roof
when we were young.
There are many crooked turns
into your heart—
too many ways to get lost.
I rode a subway
of penitent faces
deep into dark Boston till
I lost my way—
and forgot your name.
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