Listen to Michelle Li read her poem:
to having it all, that ripened pith of summer.
I remember July as it was: long ago, days strung with clarity, as
something
to think about—I was crawling out of small mercies, spending evenings
with you under receding stars, watching the sun fist its way down
the horizon. The songbirds were sad enough for this to be the end.
So in August, mother says leave the living behind;
they will live without you anyway.
