Low Tide

I am thinking of low tide. I am thinking of mud. I am thinking of sky, of swallowing, of silver trapped in lead trapped in glass. As I am thinking, I am trapped. I am muddy, glassy-eyed. I think there is only one way into the grave and that is to follow the straight path. All others lead elsewhere. If you take a wrong turn in life, you’ll find you will have ended up in another place. I have seen a place where plants are made of molten gold, and eggs are made of soft bread that splits and cracks. I have seen sharks carrying flaming boulders in their mouths. I have seen a heron stab a man through his chest. It hurt him, but only a little. I have experienced pain, but not much. I have experienced a soft sort of suffering. I have seen swallowing. I have seen the sea receding. I have seen silver trapped in lead trapped in glass. I have stared into the dried-up death of a sea and seen there my own two eyes, coiling like snails at low tide.

Portia Yu is a writer from Hong Kong. Her work has appeared in Where Else: An International Hong Kong Poetry Anthology as well as journals such as Strange Horizons, Frontier Poetry, LIKE A FEVER, and streetcake magazine. Her micro-chapbook “Alternative Bus Routes in a City Long Gone” was published as part of Ghost City Press’s summer series in 2025.