Summer, July ’17 —
Santorini appeared like a postcard / white domes and lights and the low chatter of a dormant volcano / we burnt our feet and laid on black sand beaches / ate sardines and chips by the water / followed the donkeys and the people and the sun / the sun until the end / we watched her rest into the night / every night / every night / pushed the crowds out of the way to see her body disappear into a blanket of orange / falling / falling / into the sea / two mothers meeting / we sipped wine / slurped slushies / cradled Bougainvillea flowers in our palms / wrote postcards for friends / lovers / and at the end whispered / forget me not, forget me not, forget me not.
ANTHEA YANG 