top of page


by Gian Carla Agbisit

This is not a story of redemption, 

but neither is it of regret.


In a new blaze, I stop 

to recognize the ways


and stages of bright 

burning. In remembrance:


to the old woman— 

in her scarves, in her seventies,


Amidst my shaking, 

And snot, and sweat, and tears—


who said, “Sixteen 

is too young to die.” 


So is 18, 25, 29,

I thought. Hindsight 


is always crucial

and always late


So I wait, and wait, 

and learn to hate


or erase the traces

Of brokenness,


Leaving reflections,

Shadows, friends.


I am back again:

Brilliant, broken, burning,


telling myself, “Thirty

is too young to die.” 


33, 35, 39…

Hindsight is always late,


So I wait, wait, wait.

bottom of page