after the girl in my introductory poetry class
In Newark, spring opens its mouth, yawns
across the Manhattan skyline, like a promise.
Yesterday, I asked what love was beyond
laughter skipping on broken vinyls, hands
on the steering wheel, beyond umbrellas. I
was told here, just poke at the holes in your
sky until the dreaming seeps out. I told you,
I’d find you. I’d scour poems, enjambment,
syntax, find love like soap on mosquito bites,
notepads and citrus stains, like warm sandwiches
and an ache in your heart. Listen, remember
the time I wanted to love the world, the time
I ran through everywhere and cried, the time
I made art like breathing? Just remember
to love like the family at the breakfast table—
they salt their eggs and all is forgiven.
Squirrels, breadcrumbs. Who knows?
I watch you watch the world. I notice
everything. Fingernails, eyes drifting over
glasses, robins clinging to powerlines,
magnolia, a stray eyelash on your nose,
something I’d point out. It is spring in Newark.
Manhattan sits at the edge of the world,
the sky holds me. Tell me, all you have are
your words. Worlds. Like a promise.
Z. Z. is an Asian-American writer and student who enjoys baking shows and plants. When she’s not writing, you can probably find her rollerblading.
Euphony Journal 