The sun sluices over the window,
panning for gold. The sky’s purpling
with a strain that can only
be mine. I’m holding my breath.
I’m thinking about sunset as a verb,
slow death. How one can
sunset a product but never sunrise it
back to life. The scanner
is whiter than a Ryman exhibit.
Debility is a language I
never learned to speak. What to call
the board, the vulgar cords snaking
toward my chest? What to call my heart
if it somehow fails? My heart.
The scanner sings. My heart clinks
like an egg in boiling water.
Emily Yin studies computer science and poetry at Princeton University. Her work is published in or forthcoming from the Indiana Review Online, diode poetry journal, Rust + Moth, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, and The Margins, among others. Find her online at https://admeliora.github.io and on Twitter @emilyyin16.