Inverted Abecedarian: Wind by Mia Cheung

“Zero Celsius” -- the thermostat reads --
You remind me of the Child on the street the other day.
You are built from the same spectrum of chaos she is. -- the thermostat reads --
“XXX: ERROR” frost clots its wires. Strangers claim you are
worth hiding from,
worth fearing and
worth close to nothing all at once. Once in a
while, Father says that too. He finds it “terrifying” for Child to carry that much
vagary and anger and woman in her girl body.
Vacant, he would prefer Child.
Unarmed.
Though rare, Father does sometimes tell her he is sorry. He says he yells out of care. And that he is of showing Child how to survive in the real world,
that all his teachings are golden, just
sun-stained, and that is why they burn
so much.
So Child stays quiet, stays
silent because there is not enough night in her world.
She no longer finishes her
sentences nor
scrunches up her face. She substitutes tears for
salt.
Sad. Child, come back to me.
Render plasma and elegy until the
remains are not,
quite. Trace your chill upon bark and leave trees bare.
Quick! Let the frost clots amend;
pick up where you left off and
pencil the slope of celsius declining.
Part Wind and part Child, your compassion is
our secret. Unseen to the
naked eye, you
move ships, lift the kites that dot the park and bring solace amidst the heat. You blow syrup melodies against silver tubes and when I forget how to breathe, you remind meoftheairinmy
lungs. You were not made of
lightness to be ignored, a

lesson that invisibility is not weakness. So do not leave me on the peak of our valley;
lay on down next to me,
lay in Father’s blind spot,

lay long enough. Linger.
Know you are not a nightmare. You are
just phenomenon, a metaphor for the
jarred little girls. Child,
I only wish for a whisper, an
iota more.
I do not want you to tumble down unforgiving
hills. I do not want you to
grow up confusing anger with compassion, or staying afraid of the sun. Or Fathers. Fuel wildfires and shake the
Earth -- I am beginning to see the light of your
early eyes. The
dusk gnawing away at
day, at
dawn.
Child, usher in all the windborne.
Child, tap dance until the moon hears.
Child, sing that song in the shower.
Child, crack asphalt like walnuts
Child, are you coming
back to me? -- the thermostat reads -- I have
a sock with a hole
and a numb big toe.