Nǎinai
There’s a moment each time I set
the water to boil, when I hear
the low hum you stretched over years
as you read to yourself, words cotton-
quiet as you mouthed them, before
I remember. The kettle speaks the same low note
sometimes. The house was louder, then—
it buckled under your laughter, how it bristled
each time your kitchen chair shrieked back
from the table & you clattered Mama’s tea
pots into the sink. Last week, I found your words—
handwritten, steam-blotted—inside the spine
of your cookbook, in the margins of your recipe
for tomato-egg stir fry: more time, it should feel like it will burn
but I promise it won’t. It never does. The page has gone
feather-soft in my hands. It’s peaceful, in a way, once
it gives itself over to time—the page has worked
& worked. At dusk, you settle into the radiator. The maples
drop their seeds each time you click. I always thought
I’d stop hearing our porch step’s faithful groan,
thinking you’d returned from the library, fresh
cookbooks under your arms. Or from mah-jong, your fingers
still feeling for the tiles. But
I haven’t—this morning, when I heard it, I opened
the door. The cold was honest, wide. It tasted
like the alphabet as I’d learned it, hopeful
in your shadow, each consonant a little strange
yet certain as I spoke.
the water to boil, when I hear
the low hum you stretched over years
as you read to yourself, words cotton-
quiet as you mouthed them, before
I remember. The kettle speaks the same low note
sometimes. The house was louder, then—
it buckled under your laughter, how it bristled
each time your kitchen chair shrieked back
from the table & you clattered Mama’s tea
pots into the sink. Last week, I found your words—
handwritten, steam-blotted—inside the spine
of your cookbook, in the margins of your recipe
for tomato-egg stir fry: more time, it should feel like it will burn
but I promise it won’t. It never does. The page has gone
feather-soft in my hands. It’s peaceful, in a way, once
it gives itself over to time—the page has worked
& worked. At dusk, you settle into the radiator. The maples
drop their seeds each time you click. I always thought
I’d stop hearing our porch step’s faithful groan,
thinking you’d returned from the library, fresh
cookbooks under your arms. Or from mah-jong, your fingers
still feeling for the tiles. But
I haven’t—this morning, when I heard it, I opened
the door. The cold was honest, wide. It tasted
like the alphabet as I’d learned it, hopeful
in your shadow, each consonant a little strange
yet certain as I spoke.
Fall 2026
Hanyi Zhou is a poet from Hong Kong. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Minnesota Review, Zone 3, Sonora Review, among others. Her work has been recognized by Bennington Young Writers, the Nancy Thorp Poetry Contest, and the New York Times. She finds joy in all forms of literature and writes about memory, inheritance, and the ordinary things we leave behind.
Art: L. I. Henley
“Scorpio Girl: After Rebecca Hart Olander's Singing from the Deep End,” 2026
Colored pencil, acrylic, notebook paper, found The Jesus and Mary Chain album art
“Scorpio Girl: After Rebecca Hart Olander's Singing from the Deep End,” 2026
Colored pencil, acrylic, notebook paper, found The Jesus and Mary Chain album art