Disclaimer: All of the following works in this article are unedited submissions to The Vector’s Fall 2024 Writing Competition. The content of these works does not reflect the views of The NJIT Vector.
WINNER
Gringo is a girl I know
by Natalia Peña
Gringo is a girl I know in a language I don’t
Gringo is getting tacos from Taco Bell
Is ordering from a taqueria in English
Is wearing the mexican flag
Is never setting have set foot there
Is dreaming of it with the fervor some have of leaving
Is guilt for not speaking
Shame for speaking poorly
Joy for being spoken to in a language someone assumed my fluency.
I used to tune out conversations when I heard the Spanish laughter of my mother at a joke from her mother.
I’ll never understand how funny my Tita is
I didn’t get her jokes
We used to laugh at her broken English sometimes
And she would laugh with us
Yes, she’d agree with chuckles, I don’t know the words but you know what I meant to say
(A thing she said only in the space between our giggles.
I never could read between the lines, they’re just like borders.)
I’m sorry.
I don’t think it hurt her feelings
We were just kids in a room too full of dancing words
Balloons of a language I tried to pop instead of understand.
I know I should call her more.
To practice my Spanish I say
She won’t laugh like I did when I was young
My mom talks to her for hours, I don’t know what I’d tell her
Still, I find myself surprised to see her number
To realize it’s already been a year
And is time for my annual cumpleaños greeting
And another promise para llamar.
I wish I could even do Spanglish
But my mix is a bit too ‘star spangled’
Misses the slang
Is heavy on the -ish.
My cousins drove from Mexico just to meet me
Crossed the border and sat at a mall for 3 hours talking
Just talking
I was so nervous I kept messing up my words
Tripping over the spanish script I wasn’t quick enough to write on the spot
I hadn’t met them before
They tell me they saw me when I was a baby
Says I look just like my mom
Says my mom looks just like my Tita.
Again, I’m sorry for laughing.
Gringo is grateful for opportunities,
Is guilty for getting to have them.
My Nina cried when I showed her my scholarship
My dad used to brag it to everyone
My Tita said how proud she is of me
Prays it with me in Spanish first
Then translates
And gringo knows she wishes she could have gone.
Gringo gets to go to college
Where everything’s in English.
Far from la frontera, her dancing words are fading
And Gringo goes away from family just like grandma did
She did not cross
She flew
To the big Apple
Gringo loves the yankees
In Spanish, gringo is Yankee
Still
Gringo found barrios near her
Is reminded the familia migrates too
Finds familia in the girl with the Colombian tattoo
Makes conversation with a boy from Ecuador
She used to count on 1 hand the friends she had from borderlands
Now it takes her 3
Then 5 and now she stops keeping track
The Spanish part is coming
One day
Gringo writes a poem of not knowing Spanish
Her mom didn’t teach her.
Look, mom says, now you can write these poems about it,
If you were fluent what would you write about?
Gringo will cross that bridge when she gets there.
For now,
She dreams gringo dreams of a poem in Spanish
And a new name to match
HONORABLE MENTION
Lifespan
by Shafia Jawaid
Everyone has a lifespan; a plant, an animal, or a human. Well, reader…do you know how long your lifespan is? You see… I know. Because I can see—
“What am I doing…” I mumble, deleting everything I’d just written. I huff in exhaustion, my form deflating in an instant as I lay my head in my arms, which rest on the table.
My name is Iqra Zaidi, and I have an unbelievable power: the ability to see people’s lifespans, or how long they have left to live. It all started four years ago when I was 15. I woke up for school, like any other day. I had a math test that I forgot to study for, and I thought that that was going to be the biggest problem for me that day. I was wrong.
Once I got to school, I studied as much as I could cram in that short amount of time, glancing from paper to paper and trying to comprehend the numbers and triangles. “Good morning,” Mrs. Hemingway smiled at us, her pretty hazel eyes crinkling as she did so. She held a stack of papers in her hand and stood at the front of the classroom. I was dreading the moment she’d pass those test papers out.
I hastily looked at my study sheet before placing it back in my backpack. I was so worked up with the test that I hadn’t even noticed how tired my blond-haired teacher looked. She then started slowly passing out the papers. Right as she got to me, I felt an odd sensation. It almost felt like I zoned out for a second because I hadn’t even noticed that she placed the test in front of me.
After a few minutes of trying my best on the test, I looked up. My eyebrows furrowed once I’d noticed something on top of Mrs. Hemingway’s head. They were pretty, white and gold glowing numbers. The numbers moved so fast, as if they were counting something down.
They were mesmerizing; the 00:03:57 counted down, like some timer. My eyes flickered down to see Mrs. Hemingway’s expression: her brows were furrowed and sweat drops gleamed on her light skin. She kept putting her hand on her chest, like it was getting hard to breathe. She soon sat down, seeming dizzy.
My heart started beating fast and hard in my chest. I didn’t know what to do, or what was happening. My gaze slid back up, seeing 00:02:29, and for some reason, it made me clench my fists and my heart pace quicken. Time felt like it was slowing down as the older woman gasped, ultimately hitting the floor on all fours. Many of my classmates stood up, shouting and crying.
One of the nearby teachers yelled at us to leave as he and a few other adults rushed in. They consoled us and said everything was fine, but I knew, somehow, that I would never see Mrs. Hemingway ever again.
I am now 19, and ever since then, I’ve seen the numbers on people’s heads: 45 years, 100 days, or even 2 weeks. Rarely did I ever encounter the type that was on my math teacher’s head. I can’t see my own timer, however, nor anyone else who is blood-related to me.
I sigh, sitting up straight and taking a sip from the Frappé I ordered. I’ve been trying to write a blog post that was assigned for a creative writing class. The topic for the blog is “something special about you”. But how can I write something so bizarre and expect people to believe me? Not even my parents understand… but maybe one person does.
“Hey, could you pass me an eraser?” I nod at the source of the voice and hand her an eraser.
My best friend, Hanako Suzuki, has been my friend since 10th grade and we’ve been practically inseparable, especially considering we’re both now going to the same college… but I never had the courage to tell her about my ability. I mean, if I did, would she ask me about her own numbers? I could never bring myself to tell her that— it’s just so off-putting. However, even if she did ask me… she doesn’t have anything to worry about, since the symbol above her head was a bright glowing infinity sign.
I’d never seen this sort of thing before, so when I first saw it above her my eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. I guess I shouldn’t have been so surprised, because if a strange power like mine exists, surely other odd happenings would as well.
Before I knew it, I started talking to her and invited her to my house and events at my mosque occasionally. She found that she enjoyed spending time with me– at least, I hope so.
“Iqra,” she calls out, snapping me back to reality as she snaps her fingers in my face. “Earth to Iqra?”
“Sorry,” I mumble, blinking a few times as I zone back in, focusing on her. “You were saying?”
“I wasn’t saying anything,” she snorts, “I was showing you this!” I watch her turn her phone screen towards me, yet another edit of her favorite Korean boy band member. I visibly deadpan as she squeals.
“I thought you were working,” I shake my head lightheartedly, an amused look gracing my features.
“I was! Until… I wasn’t,” she chuckles sheepishly as I raise a brow. “Brr, it’s so cold, dontcha think?”
“You’re changing the subject, I see,” I huff playfully before glancing outside at the cloudy sky and light fall of snow. “It is…” The words die down in my throat as I watch an old man, waiting at a pedestrian crosswalk with a cane held in hand. But that’s not what really catches my eye. Next to him is an excited little boy, most-likely the old man’s grandson, trying to catch snowflakes on his tongue. The big beanie hat he wears slightly covers his eyes, which he struggles to keep up with his mitten-covered hands. Normally, it would be a cute sight that I would find myself smiling at… but right above him were glowing, gold and white numbers. The same glow I’d first seen above my deceased math teacher’s head, pulsing as if it were the blood pumping through their veins.
00:01:56.
“Iqra? What in the world are you looking at? You’re zoning out aga–” I can’t even hear Hanako’s next words.
“Oh my God,” I feel myself gasping and standing up while my friend gives me a look of bewilderment.
“Hey, what are you so freaked about? Miss a due date?” She chuckles a bit, probably to lighten the situation, whatever it is. It doesn’t work, though. I feel like I can’t breathe.
“Oh my God,” I repeat in a hushed tone as I feel myself leaping out of the booth seating, my feet pushing towards the exit of the cafe as the colors blur around me, and the voice of my best friend fades.
Exiting the cafe and rushing around the block, my lungs heave out as I feel my heart drop, seeing the grandpa-grandson duo crossing the crosswalk.
“Wait…” I nearly choke on my own whispered words. “Stop!” My voice finds itself as I rush towards them. “Stop!” The old man glances back at me while the boy runs ahead. “No, the boy! The kid-!” My eyes flicker up to his numbers, my knees feeling like they’ll give out: 00:00:38.
What happens next occurs way too fast. A blur of dark brown hair rushes past me, making my hijab flow from the sheer speed, and it heads straight to the little boy, just as a swerving car speeds towards them. Too fast.
The timer ticks down, the sound of the grandpa yelling in fear, dropping his cane. The sound of people, screaming or crying out– or the sight of them turning away with pained looks on their faces. And there is me. Me, who couldn’t do anything but stand there and watch. Me, who has this ability, maybe a gift, to use and help others… me, who can’t lift another foot forward.
And then there’s her.
My heart nearly lurches out of my throat as I watch my best friend, Hanako Suzuki, freaking grab the boy and jump out of the way of the speeding car, which runs over her leg.
Her shrill scream is what brings me out of this stupid, fearful trance.
“Hana!” I cry, finally being able to move my legs towards her as many other people soon surround her, the boy and the old man. A few call the cops or an ambulance, while others chatter angrily about the drunk guy who probably got away in that car. “Oh my God, I’m so–” I feel myself choking up as I watch her writhing in pain while the little boy shimmies out of her hold and gets guided by some people back to his grandpa. Above the boy’s head now is: 82 years. I crouch down over her, unsure of what to do as warm tears glide down my freezing cheeks.
“Why did you– are you–?” The right words weren’t coming out. What do I even ask or say? Despite my panicked dilemma, I watch Hana look up at me with a glimmer in her eye. She smiles. She freaking smiles. No one else sees, since they’re either checking her leg or calling authorities. “Hana…?” I whisper in confusion, watching her close her eyes and pass out. Or fake being passed out… and then it hits me. My eyes slowly glide to the side to the glowing infinity sign on her head. Somehow, after seeing the sign, I feel my tense shoulders relax. Hana knows.
She knows about my ability. It’s about time she tells me about hers.
HONORABLE MENTION
I Will Never Let Go
by Rinaaz Khan
Boom! My heart crumbled as the buildings did. Each step of mine felt like I was running across a cliff, knowing that if I stopped, I would become the ruins. I jumped over a concrete of the school I loved. I ran across what was once a playful big tree, where my brother and I loved to swing across the branches. I ducked under the hanging pole of a streetlight. Every Sunday, the Ice Cream cart arrived at that exact spot at noon. All the children lined up with coins in their hands. But this Sunday was rather different, and frankly more frightening because under that bolder, I saw the arm that served Ice Cream. I started breathing heavily, started breathing fast, but more missiles were whistling on the way, so I kept running. I refused to look down and on my sides, knowing that someone was left on the ground. Each explosion left a mark on our land, our soil which belonged to our ancestors. But it mainly left a mark on my heart, because this is the land that was once free. Those sunsets I saw on that cliff, now it’s filled with dust and fire. That pond where I first learned to swim, now it’s filled with remains of my people. The sky which once rained with hope, with nurture and joy, washed the world. But now the sky is filled with those giant metals that pierced everything. I still kept on running, hoping that I could at least say goodbye. But when I reached my home, I saw the walls crumbled in front of my eyes. The roof smashed down the hall, and the couch ripped in shreds and pieces. I yelled. “Mama, Baba”. Even when my feet were bleeding from cuts, I yelled. Even when my arm was swelling, I yelled. Even when my knee was bruised, I yelled. My breathing became so heavy I fell on my knees. My hands shook more than the earthquake beneath the ground, to the point I could feel my soul cramped in my throat, waiting to come out. Suddenly, I felt something. I found myself in my mom’s room. A piece of paper, suddenly in my palm. I realized it was my mom’s handwriting.
“Dear son,
I know I might not see you again, but I am always with you in your heart. You must never lose who you are no matter where you are, no matter what they do to you. If you just do this, I promise, no one can take you away from the right path. The world may never change, but don’t let that change you.
I love you,
Mom”
My eyes swelled in tears, and smiled in joy. My heart paused, and flew in a peaceful rhythm. My lungs expanded in shock, and shrank in sorrow. I suddenly realized, my mom was forever gone. But those letters in her voice echoed in my soul. Now, I am more free than ever before.
I knew that this land, this soil should not be where life ends, but where it begins. But to nurture the plant you must shoo the bugs, and that’s what I needed to do. I ran, I ran, but not away, but towards. I ran around the pond and the cliff. I ignored the cuts below my feet. I ducked under the pole and ran. I felt a power unlike before. I felt the love from my mom. I felt like my feet sank into the soil, which shaped our life. I ran around the big tree, which showed me what it feels like to be free, to hold strong to the ground which keeps us standing. I grabbed a piece of rock before jumping over that concrete of the school. I finally was eye to eye with a tank. It roared through the air, but I stood still. With a rock in my hand, I am ready to defend my land, the land which will stand high, the land our ancestors fought for us, the land that showed us who we are, the land that my mom promised me to protect, and the land which I will never let go.
HONORABLE MENTION
Hiraeth
by Carlin Verano
Dream #1
Darkness stretches over me. I cannot see the sunrise or smell the earthy scent of wet dirt or hear the koels crying out to each other, but I can sense that it is dawn, a day after heavy rain. The steel grilles of a familiar set of windows fade into my vision, and suddenly I am looking through them at an inky, starless sky. I am not in my bedroom in America. I am in Singapore, in my grandparents’ living room, sprawled over their black leather couch. Why am I here? The last time I visited was two years ago, in the peak of the monsoon season, weary and homesick.
My limbs are heavy, and my movements are slowed, as if I am moving through molasses. Even blinking is a menial effort, but I continue to do so, hoping my eyes will adjust quicker to the darkness. Sure enough, I make out the silhouette of a paper calendar pinned to the walls, drawings dancing around the pages. Chang’e’s rabbit hops between the margins, and a dragon glides around gracefully, like a ribbon in the wind. The weaver girl, her hair pinned up in two loops, sighs from her place beside letters that spell “August 17”, her gaze distant and mournful. I know this art. The linework, scribbled clumsily in red crayon, is mine.
I watch them move through heavy-lidded eyes, until finally a weathered hand reaches out from the edges of my vision and tears off the page in a steady but quick motion. How do I know it is your hand? I think that I would have known it by touch alone; after all, it was you who held my hand when you walked me to preschool every morning. When we crossed roads, you would tell me to look left, then look right, then look left again, but I did so without much concern or care, because I knew it didn’t matter what I did. You would always keep me safe. It was you who guided my pen when I learned to write my name—two easy characters, 凯琳—and it was you who corrected my lines. It was you and Ma Ma who would take care of me whenever I fell sick so my parents could go to work. “Gong Gong loves you so much,” my mom would always tell me after picking me up. You never replied to our stubborn “I love you”’s, but your actions were enough.
I try to look up and get a glimpse of your face, but my neck is frozen. I can only see your hand, holding the page you’d torn off, retreating back into the darkness. I want to reach out and grab it, but I am still paralyzed, so I watch helplessly, my heartbeat racing faster. My eyes dart to the walls as the layers of white paint peel, then to the steel window grilles, which rust and evaporate into thin air. When the calendar starts to crumble too, I finally notice the date on the new page.
“August 18? Like the day that he…” Sunni asked apprehensively, his eyebrows furrowed upwards in concern. When I nodded, he started chewing at his lip nervously, as if he was the one who woke up from a dream about his dead grandpa this morning. “Maybe you should see a therapist.”
“I’m good. I swear,” I reassured him, forking at my cheesecake mindlessly, breaking it into smaller and smaller pieces. Sunni took a long, thoughtful sip from the cup he was holding to his mouth.
“That’s such a random thing to dream about, though? Like, he was just tearing off a calendar page?”
I considered that for a moment. I liked talking to Sunni, because he always asked dumb questions that made me think. “I don’t know, it’s just something he did. I would wake up and the page would always already be torn off because he woke up at six every morning like a psycho.”
We chewed in silence. A waiter set down two coffees and a croissant for the old couple next to us. Two tables behind, a young girl sat on her mother’s lap, slamming her chubby arms on the table. A chorus of crickets sang in perfect unison from the trees that stretched over and around. I looked up from my cheesecake, which was nothing but a pile of crumbles by now, and caught Sunni squinting at me over the rim of his cup. I dropped my fork, folded my arms, and sighed. “It’s been two years, Sunni. I’m good.”
“I’m just saying, don’t let it be all that you think about. Maybe you should go back to visit your grandma.”
“Maybe I should. I miss Singapore. But I kinda hate how much it changed. They’re developing things like crazy, which is good, but I still hate it.”
He chewed at his lip again, then took another gulp. When he looked up, he was staring into the distance over my shoulder. “Of course it has. Things never stay the same.”
Dream #2
I am flying. More like floating, really, the way I buoy up and down, letting the gentle breeze carry me. Below me is an expanse of beautiful blue: the glittering ocean, brimming with life and possibility.
The winds begin to blow harder. As they pass by, they whisper into my ears. Run, they warn, but I feel at peace. Soon, the breezes swell into gales, but I remain floating, unaffected. I am merely a spectator in this utopia.
I look down and see a small island, with colorful high-rise flats surrounded by tropical trees. It seems so far away, so small—like a miniscule model inside a snow globe—but from its shape I know that it is Singapore, my island country, my little Red Dot. I drift closer until I come across a familiar building. It is shorter than the rest, numbered “222” on its side in magenta. Its purple and orange paint persists and shines through layers of dirt and wear. It looks the same way it did nine years ago, when we packed our bags and left for America. I fly to the nearby playground (not hard to find amidst the forests that surround it, with its bright red towers and orange slides), where a girl chases her dog off the soft rubber grounds and all the way across the grassy slopes that flank block 222. I remember doing that too, a long, long time ago. I remember how the grass plains would fill up with water after a day or two of heavy rain. I remember the dragonflies that would come, and I remember trying to hold out my fingers for them to rest on. I remember chasing my dog around and laughing into her soft white fur when I caught her.
I turn and see a construction site. Now this is not familiar to me. I see cranes digging out dirt, placing it down elsewhere. Buildings fall, and steel beams are erected. Men with neon orange vests take off their yellow helmets and wipe sweat off their foreheads. They work, undeterred by (or unaware of?) the cautionary winds. I watch them as white hair begins to fester in their beards, as their skin sags and the muscle on their limbs sinks in on itself. I watch as their sons, renewed in spirit, arrive in their place, wearing the same vests and taking off the same yellow helmets and working the same sweat off their tired brows. Before I know it, the colorful high-rises and playgrounds are gone; in their place are skyscrapers and parking lots. They are amazing skyscrapers, wonders of geometry, an architect’s pride; they glow from the reflections of blinding sunlight. But where is the girl and her dog? Where are the banyans and the willows, or block 222 and its playground? Watch, the winds whisper, watch as we take it away.
Suddenly, the skyscrapers stop glowing. Rather, the reflections of sunlight cease, and I realize that dark clouds now blanket the sun, and that the winds are growing stronger still. The oceans no longer sparkle. It is pitch black now, swelling and swirling angrily. Waves crash into each other as they approach the shore, until they merge into one big wave. It should be impossible; we never got tsunamis or hurricanes. But the wave doesn’t stop growing. It is so tall that it casts an impending shadow of disaster over the skyscrapers.
I watch as the winds cackle and the ocean sinks my island.
“Uh…you normally get dreams like that?” Sunni asked, propping his head up on the arm of the couch. I curled my knees up into my chest and nodded. The movie we put on hummed in the background.
“Only recently. You still think I should go back to visit?” I mumbled, rubbing my forehead into my arms.
“You said you don’t get tsunamis over there.”
“You never know. Global warming and whatnot.”
“I think it’s more symbolic than anything.”
I shot him a look, already tired of this conversation. I hated when he used his brain and got philosophical and weird. He fiddled with the strings of his hoodie, avoiding my glare.
“You said you hate that Singapore’s all different now. I mean, I feel the same way when I visit my village. It’s more different than it ever was. But it’s not really gone. You know that, right?”
I shook my head and sunk back into my arms.
When my grandpa died two years ago, the same year my mom and I went back to visit, it felt like a part of the Singapore I knew died with him. I told Sunni as much. I didn’t think he would remember. But maybe it was a good thing I did.
“I know.”
Dream #3
I am standing at a cliff, overlooking colorful high-rises that peeked over the top of a forest of banyan trees. Stars hang in the navy blue sky, twinkling like jewels. My hair sticks to my skin from the humidity, and the air is thick. It smells like rain and smoke.
I look up and see that one of the stars shines brighter than the rest. It grows brighter, slowly at first, then it flashes so blindingly that I have to shield my eyes. When I find the courage to look up again, I see something that I will never forget: a meteor shower.
They are so close, I can make out the fiery trails that they leave as they rain down onto the high-rises and banyans. Destructive, but beautiful all the same.
I don’t know what prompts me to, but I tear my eyes away from the sight and look to my right. There, a lone grave stands, carved out of white marble, edges lined with gold. I squat down next to it. There is a small oval picture on the grave, but it is covered in grime, so I wipe at it with my fingers until it reveals an old man flashing a half-toothless smile. His white hair is brushed back neatly, and he is wearing a suit. My Gong Gong. My grandfather.
Content, I sit back next to the grave and turn my gaze back to the meteor show. The forests are ablaze now. Clouds of smoke shroud the horizon.
For the first time in a while, I am at peace.
HONORABLE MENTION
A SERIES OF POEMS ABOUT ORANGES AND DEATH
by Emma Fernandes-Santinho
the beach is littered with empty horseshoe crab shells,
and i think;
they don’t die up here, like that.
you know? they’re not crawling out
onto shore, en masse,
a clustered and clambering fossil
hosting a thousand year old
funeral rite. they die alone.
just like we do.
languid and lethargic and without
obituary, there is some slow movement
unintended as the final,
and the continued silence
of a sea floor uninterrupted.
a frozen decomposition,
the sway of a hollow thing
unable to maintain its ghost’s posture
any longer. a rip tide,
a low tide, and the brutal comfort
of the ocean’s cycles.
lives washed up and sunken into sand bars,
cracked and buried under the
sightless palms of my feet.
i once read that horseshoe crabs
live to nineteen, and wondering
if i would too.
2 new notifications
call me a decembrist
the way i laid down for you last winter
the way my forearms ran burgundy with
all the hurt you lodged under my chin.
i think about that tv show that we watched together
all the time, how we ended up no better than
the dead girl and her cheating friend.
how we couldn’t hold each other’s love either.
someone asked me how i got so good at asking questions,
and how could i tell him it was a beast of empathy.
of knowing what you’ve always wanted to hear
and play the burden of saying it instead,
bear the role of a narrator instead of the self.
i’m in love, i lie.
i’m in love, i’m in love,
i’m in love.
fruit bowl
the fantasy is
that you will decide to change.
crawl back and beg for a chance
to eat clementines barefoot on cold tiles
and laugh at our reflections —
one more time. i repotted a succulent today.
an exercise in moving on,
roots wrapping roots
like dirt is not the greatest impermanence
we could ever hold in our hands.
my phone tells me the moon is in its first quarter
but i know i’m in the last —
i’ve always pronounced “cyclical” wrong.
i stopped going to church
after a priest told me desire was a choice.
(i have stopped counting the times
god has abandoned me.)
this is what we are.
plastic cups, green with water-wear
and remnants of what is
now departed.
the sun is the loneliest star
i eat tangerines in pairs
because i think fruits are lovers too.
everything in my life
has at one point existed on my bedroom floor,
disorderly decadence, a star map of my brain —
a neurologist’s wet dream. idiosyncrasies
and mandarin peels littered around a blue blanket,
a spread of sky for the tepid heat of this
aching body, canines pointed upward,
back against hardwood. the ceiling is sea foam
and the waves know my secrets,
the whispers of smoke from letters burned,
the hum of acoustic guitar strings.
i breathe into light bulbs above
empty of electricity, stalked only by
a tide of chipping paint and hidden ink stains.
tears lift from cheekbones, egrets off salt cliffs,
and i feel all the gravity working in reverse,
all the steel structures within me coming apart and undone
and oxidizing midair as they plummet up into the ocean,
leaving me — a shell in the sky.
the record player spins regardless.
the old birthday cards and singularity of self will still be there
when i rise. light touches nothing.
it simply calls out, back to itself,
“who’s there?”
last will
because i already know what happens.
i could tell you your tarot without a card deck,
write you a future on the back of a bank note.
you’ll be buried in the ground, like a secret,
roots tangled with the stars rattling in your hollow eye sockets.
no one will know which tree is your new body,
but they’ll pretend
and i will feel you in every forest.
at the end of my life
there will be no one to wash my feet.
when mushrooms make home in my jaw,
i will not resist leaving my bones behind.
i will walk backwards, to the place i was born, and find it paved over.
not even the birds land there anymore.
but i’ll find a crack in the concrete, and i’ll cement myself,
and i will stay and stay and stay.
and one day, when the canopy covers the sky again
i will find you amongst the citrus tree branches.