Mangrove
A turtle’s heart can beat
for hours after butchering.
I wanted to be that—
to keep on loving
after your body stopped.
To end your pain
before your body gave out—
the blue cap clicks:
clack, clack
on tile.
The tide reaches,
then retreats.
Waterlines
ring my trunk.
Outside, a buoy tolls
every third breath.
I hold the pen; voices lean.
Initials darken the corners.
Two copies spool.
When I was small,
I dreamed of growing
into a tree—
heavy with blossoms.
Then red fruit.
Then petals in the water.
By morning
the mist came back cold.
A mangrove
cannot survive
even mild freezes.
I was snow
settling there.
Morning frost rims
each breathing root.
I face the empty crate.
The bed.
The corner.
Brackish air salts wood.
Your collar on the crate.
The bowl sweating.
The cap turns.
Silence.
Listen to this piece
Read by Kimmy Chang
Kimmy Chang is a McKinney-based writer and computer vision engineer. A 2026 Writers’ League of Texas Fellow and Pushcart Prize nominee, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Apple Valley Review, wildscape. literary journal, Qu Literary Magazine, and Third Wednesday, among others. Read more at https://www.kchang.xyz/.