Arrival Before the Rose Dream Ends (previously published by Wild Court）
He says he’ll arrive in Portland tomorrow. It’s his turn to pay — In the silence before the restaurant opens, he arrives early.
A self-serve hot pot, steam rising to fend off winter. The union of dead volcanoes and roses, perfect in his mind — a scene from an Italian art film, woven into the hum of lobby music.
A couple pick their ingredients. A spoon stirs the sauce, like jam stirred by love.
As dusk settles, the girl arrives and whispers something behind him. He answers, “It’s nothing.” He pays the bill this time and next time.
Months later, in a dream, the dead volcano erupts, swallowing the roses, swallowing his life.
The next morning, the news reports — a young man in a Portland apartment, kissed by death.
He lies on a bed of roses, silent as a dead volcano.
Confessions of Death（Previously published in Apocalypse Confidential）
I am a wealthy writer from a noble Kyoto family. In Japan, my fans call me: Swan.
I remember when pale moonlight illuminates the ashen stone. A woman drapes herself in a white kimono, adorned with strutting cranes and blooming pink sakura, gazing deeply at my figure.
She is my wife, an elegant swan too, who carries the spirit of Bushido.
I do not long to embrace death; I only wish to spread my wings and self-destruct beautifully, for redemption.
My consciousness submerges in the weight of original sin, rolling alone.
My family owns a villa during wartime, where cherry blossoms bloom in abundance. How shameful this is to the impoverished. Only death offers peace.
I want to cast my weightless body into the surging ocean together with her. I say, “As a mortal, I am so sorry. I do not deserve to be happy.”
Two swans step into the water, forsaking this ridiculous family. In the moment of fading, death is liberation.
A moment of silence, my heart at peace, with oceanic waves.
Within this vast wheel of destiny, I surrender to the hush of infinity.
We long for peace, and in the crushing of the great wheel, only the moment of suffocation beneath the water brings forth a profound and joyful illusion:
The setting sun, spring snow, floating chrysanthemums in my first chapter of life.
We die for the suffering, but for whom do the living live? We destroy ourselves for our own expectations, but who remembers the dead?
At last, we smile at death, at nothingness. Death becomes our final sanctuary, a respite from a world reeking of greed.
Like two delicate leaves, we softly fall into the ocean. Through the moon’s shadow, flowers’ darkened faces resemble death.
Interview with Yucheng Tao
You’re also a songwriter and a music student. Do you think your musical interests and knowledge inspire your poetry, or vice versa? Do you imagine your poems set to music?
Music’s rhythm gives me inspiration for the basic feelings in my poems. They feel like twin flames to me. I prefer to make independent work for my poetry and for my instrumental guitar music. I have had a lot of my instrumental work published by other magazines.
Since you’re an international student from China, is Mandarin your first language? What is the process like crafting poetry in a language other than your native language? Do you come up with a concept and structure in Mandarin first and then translate, or do you think purely in English for your poetry?
Yes, Mandarin is my first language. At the beginning, I tried very hard to write purely in English. Over time, it became more natural—but sometimes, inspiration still comes to me in fragments of Chinese. When that happens, I’ll translate or transform those images into English. Other times, the ideas arrive already in English. I think I now live between the two languages, and my poetry is shaped by both.
I notice a theme of death in your work, our complex relationship with the inevitability of death. Why and how do you think you’re drawn to write about death?
When I write about death, I’m really writing about consciousness, time, grief, and the fragility of perception. Life is destined to vanish in the cruel cycle of the seasons, so I feel a need to record my reflections on death—and everything bright that will one day be drowned: existence itself, which can be anything, even a voice within.
In the two pieces you sent for our July issue, your protagonists had the chance to enjoy lovely things in life: delicious food, fine clothing, moonlight, wealth, romantic love, although their enjoyment was short-lived. Many poets write about beauty in various forms. What do you consider beautiful and why, and what sorts of beauty are you drawn to in poetry?
I think beauty sometimes comes from fleeting moments—when I touch snow, rain, wind, or when the silent gods arrive with the night. My poems often explore the uncertainty of beauty, because everything can be beautiful in its own way.
How would you describe your poetic style, and has it changed over the years as you developed your craft?
My poetic style moves through darkness across beauty—and something beyond. Every day, I try to change something in my work: the technique, the form, the voice, and the feeling of the unknown.
What poets, or kinds of poetry inspire you? Do you consider your work part of any poetic tradition?
I love The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot, and I’m also drawn to Eastern forms that emphasize imagery, like haiku. Baudelaire, Akhmatova, and even the poetic language in Nabokov’s novels have all influenced me. I don’t often think in terms of tradition—I just read what I love, and follow where those poems lead me.
What are you working on now in your writing? What are your next steps?
I’m currently working on a series of poems centered around a character called the Skull-God—a light sci-fi exploration of human nature and emotion. I’ve written about five pieces so far and plan to continue expanding the series. Eventually, I hope to create a mini chapbook, somewhere between 12 to 20 pages.
Yucheng Tao’s poetry and fiction have appeared in a range of literary journals across the US, UK, and internationally. His recent work has been published by Wild Court (King’s College London), Cathexis Northwest Press, The Lake(UK), NonBinary Review (where he was also interviewed), and Red Ogre Review(UK). His writing has also featured in Waymark Literary Magazine, Apocalypse Confidential, The Arcanist, and others. He was named a semifinalist for the Winds of Asia Award by Kinsman Quarterly.
At this very moment, you’re in the city, where traffic bustles all around. You wander through the book street, a little lost, stopping now and then to chat aimlessly with a young university student who, just seconds earlier, was staring out the window, perhaps counting raindrops or lost in thoughts that weighed on her heart. It’s autumn in Saigon, though you can’t tell where summer ends or winter begins. All you feel is a mess of emotions, a flood of memories, longing, and affection threading through every bone, aching like winter cold.
To you, she was all four seasons. But you liked to call her Pandora, yours alone. She was Saigon’s rainy and sunny days, tender green, the scent of lotus. She could be Saigon’s fall, Hue’s winter, Dalat’s pine forest, or a foreign ocean shore, you never tried to pinpoint her. All you needed to know was that somewhere, you lived in her heart, and she always reigned in the left chamber of yours. She was a realm of your thoughts, a blooming golden lily, a small alley, and Saigon in autumn.
You closed your eyes, and you were somewhere inside a fairytale garden. Dewdrops sparkled purple and crimson on the grass, reflecting the sunlight filtering through the sky. You wandered around the garden, the sunflowers drooped while the last asters stretched upward, clinging to bloom.
“You’re late,” her voice was soft and warm, like a breath of autumn, like a leaf fluttering gently. Music drifted through the chill air. She was right there, beside you, yet loneliness still lingered in the wide-open space.
She whispered something about music you didn’t fully grasp, but you listened anyway, drawn to the fragrance in her gentle voice. She spoke of rock and pop tinged with wistful chimes, of bittersweet ballads strummed by a distant guitar, of unrequited love, of death beneath decaying trees, and of mournful melodies. The leaves turned golden, and the morning air was brisk and clear. You watched her, so vibrant in a pastoral scene full of allure. Through her voice, music became innocent and luminous. Somewhere, a violin solo began to rise, just a bit more skilful, a bit more joyful and the crisp late-autumn air pulled you deeper into her presence. Her voice, its softness and seduction, merged with the crackle of leaves underfoot. At times, her eyes lit up with a radiant smile.
She wore pale brown boots, a grey knit sweater, a delicate scarf, and a silky A-line skirt. Around her fair wrist, a glittering bracelet fastened with Pandora’s iconic clasp and sparkling stones. In a tender moment, she removed it, handing you a single silver Pandora Moments charm, an emerald star. They said nothing more. Just listened to music playing softly from her tiny phone. You were overwhelmed by a serene intimacy, a sweet romance. The sound was like a soul-deep embrace, one you never wanted to end. You felt a deep, almost aching familiarity, as if nothing in life could surpass this. Listening to heartfelt music, sitting beside a graceful, intelligent woman, you knew then that this was the one you wanted to spend your life with.
When the song ended, all you wanted was to tell her how much you wanted her, needed her, loved her. You wanted to open your arms, pull her close, and place a warm, earnest, and pure kiss on her lips, a kiss of that perfect morning, of youth. Some melodies seem powerful enough to change everything. And yet, you couldn’t move. You just stood there, frozen, until her footsteps faded and only the light rustle of falling leaves remained in the air.
Back in the city, you couldn’t forgive your own hesitation. A block of ice had formed in the middle of that floating autumn. The discomfort lingered for weeks, then months. Every time you woke up, every afternoon after work, every night before sleep, she was there. Her image filled Saigon’s streets, radiant, clear, confident. Autumn passed. Winter came. Seasons changed. Encounters came and went, but your fear never left. You feared shattering the fragile autumn clouds, feared a gust of wind blowing in the wrong direction, feared her scarf wrinkling when the music hit its climax.
You saw her again and again, in that garden, on crowded streets. Each time, you wanted to say something, but the words collapsed inside, your limbs trembled like you had a fever. Each afternoon after work, you wandered aimlessly, mind blank, staring at your coffee cup and a bare wall, ignoring every phone call, never logging into Facebook.
Until one day at the end of August, what strange force gave you the courage to finally hold a girl’s hand, to kiss her cheek softly, scented with purple flowers? That girl, with fair wrists, a gleaming silver bracelet, high heels, and a floral dress. And at that moment, a familiar tune echoed, a gentle fragrance lingered. You were overwhelmed; your heart throbbed as if struck by a sudden storm.
She stood there, watching you and the girl, or maybe lost in Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. The horizon opened before you in shades, but what lingered deepest was the brown of fallen leaves and the gray of her knitted sweater. The scene was pristine, canopied in green, sky scattered with clouds. It deepened your view of things. And now, every time you return to the city, you ask yourself: Who am I in this life? Why does the Pandora charm in your left coat pocket still glow with warmth? And when will you ever forget her, especially when autumn returns to Saigon?
Võ Thị Như Mai is a Vietnamese-Australian poet, translator, and cultural contributor currently living in Western Australia. Her writing explores themes of memory, identity, diaspora, and the quiet power of everyday life. With a deep love for both Vietnamese and English literature, she often bridges the two through translation and creative expression. Như Mai’s poems have been featured in various literary platforms, and she actively participates in international poetry and cultural exchange events. Her work is marked by sensitivity, lyrical grace, and a strong connection to her cultural roots. Her work was featured in BRUSHSTROKE WA 2023 and in recognition of her contributions to cultural and literary exchange, she was recently honoured by the Consulate General of Vietnam in Australia for promoting Vietnamese literature and arts abroad
I remember a whisper I heard when I was seven; a uniformed policeman was addressing my aunt, with whom I lived. “Your brother, Mrs. Allen, was killed in an automobile accident last night.” Aunt Livy’s only brother was my dad, Tom Lewis, Jr. I was named after him, which made me Tom Lewis, III.
I heard a sharp intake of breath and then screaming. I remember worrying about how Aunt Livy was taking the news, but then I realized that the heavy breathing and screaming was coming not from my aunt but from me. But nobody else could hear it. They paid me no mind.
“His body was taken directly to the mor- gue, Ma’am,” said the cop. “There was just no hope. I’m sorry.” She said some- thing like, “Yes, that’s probably for the best; I’ll phone the funeral home this afternoon.” What I thought I heard was: “Yes, indeed, Tom should bring around $1.49 per pound at the butcher’s; and I’ll see to it that Mr. Lindsey doesn’t put his thumb on the scale this time!”
I startled, stared disbelievingly at Aunt Livy but her face was the same as always. The conversation between the policeman and my aunt continued for several more minutes with no further surprises. I took a deep breath.
“I’ll get out of your hair now, Mrs. Allen; I know you must have just skads of people to contact.” What my aunt then said was, “That’s correct, Officer: his ex-wife, our parents, his work, there’s just a hundred things to do!”
But, what I thought I heard was: “That’s correct, Officer, I have calls to make, invi- tations to send out, caterers to call, for the huge party we’re giving in celebration of my brother’s passing. You and the misses should come, too.” I didn’t hear his re- sponse but she added, “Don’t bring a thing; we’ll have noise-makers, balloons. I think we’ll even have fireworks.”
As he turned to leave, the policeman swiveled round to me and said, “Take care, Young Man, things are going to be alright.” Then he smiled and left. But, what I thought I heard him say was, “You little shit! If I catch you out after curfew, for any reason, I’ll tear your heart out!” Then he grinned grotesquely and left.
When the cop had gone, Aunt Livy, who had been my guardian all my life, since even before my mom and dad split up, said, “Well, I guess you heard most of that, Tommy. I know it’s not easy to lose a parent–or a brother–but we’ll manage somehow.” She smiled sweetly at me.
But, what I thought I heard her say was, “Now I’m stuck with you, you little parasite!” She drew her finger to her chin, thinking. “But it might not be all bad: I could get his house!” And she smiled sweetly. It was at about that time that I began in earnest my life-long love affair with Lithium and Quaaludes.
