
Hannah Seo
I cannot decide if today is today
or some Tuesday
in the May of
1990 — when
the not-yet-
an-engineer
embraced the not-yet-
so-many-things,
laughed through
their fingertips
and the soles of
their feet,
laughed about
one nothing
that burgeoned
into so many others,
enthralled
by each other’s
glorious
and rapturous
will to self-destruct —
the kind of
hubris-less-ness
only the
transparency of youth
can sustain —
and knew of
so many ways to
go back in time:
tree rings, bones,
the rays
of cosmic
stars, scabs, soil,
a hair’s split ends.
This poem was originally published in Gravitas in Sept. 2019.