Rivulets

by Cindy Liang 26'

Photograph by Manlai Esther Peckham

Rivulet: a very small stream

1. Sun

The rays were never-ending, withering spines and flaxen straw alike. It tanned their faces and burned their souls, until their memories tinged honey-gold. They breathed the songs in the wind as it brushed past stalks of corn, tucked in their throats. Lullabying. Mollifying. Children of the night. Those were better times. The warmth of hope came in rivulets, flowing into the ocean, an embrace. A reservoir of memory. It savored sweeter that way.

2. stars

They tell her the stars are baby suns, far away. They tell her she will become the brightest star. Untouchable. She is shining when they usher her into a room. Smiling as she poses in front of a camera. Sobbing when they drag her by the hair into oblivion, sea spray staining rivulets down her cheeks. Disconcerted and distraught. Stars shine brightest in darkness.

3. Moonlight

Transformation transpired. She looks twenty-five when she’s only sixteen. When the night breeze shivers over her skin, she feels tainted, appalling, and soiled. She shouldn’t have been pinned down, laid bare like a stripped doll. It burns her from the inside out, charred through and through. Lying in a bathtub full of dirty water, she wishes she could unspool the purity of soul from body, drowning her stained corpse behind. Every month, she prays for the rivulets of blood running between her thighs. The moonlight tastes like reality. Biting and bitter. 

A rivulet: Endlessness. 

The river near the motel gurgles playfully. When they drag her from the bay, the river clings to her like a lost child. The rivulets run down her skin as unshed tears. 

Rivulets: Freedom

Her dreams sing for her

Melodies haunt her nightmares

“The Sound of Freedom”