Cambridge Night

Xuemeng Zhang

It’s in imagination. It’s on the tourist map.
It’s been fermented too long, in movies and books,
Like nicely aged wine. A throbbing heart, boasting its vibe;
A polished gem, shining gleamingly
On a well-mannered hand.

Passing the walls painted by soot, buses,
Wobbling sleepy woven bags from Aldi,
As professors tried to alarm Latin words
Between yawning. A waned, waned afternoon,
Fading towards twilight, predicted by historians.

By the river, thoughts ripple themselves away. Crows
Continue their march, on the poorly stitched field
Flickering, melting lamp lights, peppered with
Young and ambitious hearts; Another doctrine we dispel
Another rosy cheek smiles, freshly-peeled.

Ritual, a stylish smudge, make sure we
Glow it up, as our eyeliner. For some nights
I wander with no change to spare, no literature
To review. Run, run, until the gown floated by the wind
O this beautiful, beautiful, gilded bubble.

“How do you find Cambridge?” he asked
At dining hall, between the glasses in line,
Face distorted, showing a circulated smile.
While we talked, I kept looking at the weathercock’s
Pensive swinging. Its arc in motion: faintly, until
Almost unbearable, for a while.

2024