[167 words]
ほのお が きえる— ほら… きえた.
flame’s going to go out— see… it died.
dust‑slick rafters breathe above my cushion,
rank‑incense threads snag my throat.
I bow—knees lock—sweat turns salt‑sharp.
*bwong*
narrator:
gods arrive only in despair—poverty, plague, death…
I raise my frayed fan, paper crackling.
man:
goddamn. landlord’s pounding, fridge yawns,
coins clink like teeth… even the grave sounds kinder.
my spine folds—vertebrae click into a shinigami grin.
shinigami:
yet years remain, fool! why not become a doctor?
you’d make a killing…
wax pops; smoke coils kerosene‑blue.
shinigami:
listen—two clean claps, voice steady—
only when death crouches at the feet,
never, never at the crown.
…
haori soaked, seams whining.
shinigami:
hey—HEY—did I not say “never at the crown”?
I scratch a circle, fan trembling in offering.
man:
spare me, please!
knees bruise the boards; breath rusts out.
shinigami:
pitiful creature… here, take this candle—
steal tomorrow’s flame if you dare.
hand mirrors hand—flame judders, spits white.
*bwong*
darkness kneels closer.
I lunge, relight the final fan—
paper curls, chars black.
rakugo? artist? who did I fool?
this story—see… it died.
Kimmy Chang is a Pushcart Prize-nominated poet whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in trampset, Bombay Gin, and Stone of Madness Press, among others. She studied poetry at Stanford but moonlights as a Computer Vision Engineer, helping telescopes track satellites and stars. Originally from McKinney, TX, she spends her free hours pampering her fluffy puffs (Muki and Kakuni), coaxing microgreens to grow, and waging peaceful war on garden pests. Her first chapbook is brewing ~ alongside her second cup of cocoa and Kakuni’s latest sock heist.
