Published in Inkwell
Driving through it, there’s lots
to see through my eyelashes,
which are sticking to each
other–prison bars or walnut
trunks in line like soldiers,
whichever you prefer. There’s
cars covered in freckles of
autumn rust; an oxidized
Lutheran church in a standoff
against the tea shop across
from it; there’s my cousin,
sitting on a cliff overlooking
the shore. We chow on banh mi,
talk about how things change.
How there’s not as many surfers
out there, how neither of us
have been able to catch a rainbow
trout at our secret camping spot
in years. We compare notes
on where we’ll be moving
and if we want to be there
at all. “Here is as good a place
as any,” she says. “Over there
is just as good, I bet,” I tell her.
Our bodies feel normal and we
palm more mango and pluck more
mint and eat more bread.
Jaden Fong 