cross

cross

By Jennifer Choi

do you know the cross?
not the rails that run side by side,
but the tangled X-shaped stitches
or the scissors that slice through the night.

it’s a night chewing gum on one leg,
leaning against the dark.
a night that, if upright,
might resemble the holy red crosses
illuminating the city.
but no, it thrives as an X,
rolling out letters meant to be
incorrect on purpose!

a deliberate wrong turn,
the exit to every misstep.

do you know you?

the zigzagged laces on your sneakers each night,
the staggered steps in the dark we shared,
under stars scattered like salt by God’s hand,
where meteors slashed across
the beauty of failure.

when i stitched open wounds,
black threads of the cross
merged two kinds of time.
not to heal,
but to let scars grow—
humble, unseen,
following the cross’s pattern,
relinquishing their first dazzling flare.

oh, do you know this?

when i see you,
when i see your shoes,
don’t tell me your ribbon has just come undone.
don’t say the rain falling on your face
beats a cross into your cheeks,
tears tangled with downpour.

instead, let me kneel silently.
let me knot your soaked, slack laces—
a clumsy old-fashioned pattern,
pulling them tight into Xs
with two fingers,
securing the cuffs of the cross,
while gazing at your ridiculous grin.

do you know your ankles—
those fragile hinges of possibility,
those alleyways of the night?
do you know the way
they stretch through the cracked sidewalks,
bursting forth like spring’s naive trees,
holding up each other’s tender weight
with the lips of a cross?

do you know the softness of crossing—
the syllables,
the delicate music of steps
quietly sharing silence?

do you know that night?
you must.
because i knotted your laces without a word,
because one time
wrapped another tightly,
& neither let go.