It makes me cold to think of her. It makes me bleed.
But still she comes, reminding me. A small repeat, a coda.
I’ve gendered her because a daughter’s what I know the most.
A small girl, motherless and gone. The smallest craft,
the drifting boat, the disappearing coast.
And who authors the current, who thought that up?
I’ll leave the beacons on for you, despite it. Every night.
Ablaze is where you leave me. I was gone, but I’ve returned.
Daughter, little sailor, always check the fire: you’ll find me there.
The Afterlife of the Unborn
Jen Schalliol Huang lives near Boston and received her MFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Her chapbook was printed through the Kenyon Review, and her work appears or is upcoming in the Cincinnati Review, Flock, RHINO Poetry, The Shore, Sou’wester, and elsewhere. She is a reader/writer for [PANK], a three-time nominee for The Pushcart Prize, twice for Best New Poets, and a candidate for 2020’s Best of the Net.