By AVA WONG
my name is but a whisper on
your grandmother’s lips—
syllables itchy like ink
on a wet page, fingers
reaching for a memory, for
the stone they tied
to a girl who dared to breathe.
i have spent an eternity
swallowed by
silence, swimming
in my bloated spite. i waited for you
at the water’s edge, waiting
to carve four syllables
down your back, to reach my soul
beyond river and sand, to crawl
into every vowel you think, cling
to every consonant
you speak. to emerge
with my name, with every shamed name,
with every forgotten mother, forgotten daughter, forgotten girl—
and you will not whisper,
水鬼. you will say my name
and remember the hand
throwing the first stone.
what we all did.
Writer | Ava Wong ’29 | avwong29@amherst.edu
Editor | Sam Huang ’26 | lhuang26@amherst.edu