Eclipse

Joyce Hida

for my sister

Turning to me, hair coiled like desperate fists, you admit a first envy—for the quick walk,
the reservoir frog-heavy and silver, for the city exponential, the immediacy of beauty

in this life. We eat well, overtake school groups on the High Line, sew stars onto our
stockings, sing, loudly, with a thousand breaths, keep the usual New York hours,

find ways to fill the time. I want to spoil it—I want to tell you, when you leave, the road narrows.
The trees stink with sap, the sky wears its half-light, I sweat myself sick

on the subway, lose what little I try to keep. I want to tell you I live here
with all my mistakes. But yes, the city has a vicious magnetism like when geese peck

each other to death but from the valley all you see are feathers threading the air like mist;
Every distance has its mirage. Walking the park alone, I’m dressed green and good. Imperial

moths eclipse each other by the lake, wing on wing casting monstrous shadows. Do you remember
when I soared above you—I mean, when you could look up at me? These days, I like to lie here

and let things work themselves out, moth over moon over sun. The park doubles
its life, and I wish I could parcel myself out onto the crowd, walk a million more miles.

There are so many people who could live my life better than me. Maybe you
know this already. When I look at the clouds I think of your warm breath bending voice

into the cold, chasing seasonless and sunbound after me.

Joyce Hida is a poet based in NYC. She has previously been published in Kissing Dynamite, TYPO, Philadelphia Stories, and South Florida Poetry Journal, among others. Her work in Empty House Press was nominated for a 2022 Best of the Net award.