The first word is Heart
next to No.
Sometimes, the Heart hums
stillness in-sync
with my hourglass
while I examine each speck
of pollen on my white car,
yellow, but just barely.
Sometimes, the Heart hums
adrenaline and No,
carrying too much oxygen
to be locked inside
this beautiful cell.
The Heart rusts too.
Sometimes, I carry too many
dreams where I sit
next to people in the car,
arms touching.
My dream self does not know
touch is the same as kill.
Sometimes, I carry too little
light, so I lay on the couch,
listening to the sound of people
on the other side.
The second word is Heart
under Today, hidden.
I miss the walks I took at the park
when people smiled
How’re yous? I’m fines, what about yous?
They’ve all been buried in Today’s backyard.
The small talk in the elevator,
covered in pink curtains,
aching to flutter, but there is no wind.
The windows are closed, locked.
The squeak of the grocery store
carts skittering on dirty marble floors
suffocating under the weight of Today.
The barista’s decaf soy milk latte
becomes a brown bag at my door,
leaving just the shadow of invisible
footsteps.
Together, they mean to carry
something missing in the heart.
The urgent sound of life
drowned out by
the nervous song of birds.
Photo: Nishant Patel (2020)
Poet Bio
Home?
Duluth, Georgia.
What is home to you?
Home is where my people are.
Karen Zheng is a first-generation, queer, Chinese-American undergraduate student studying English and Creative Writing (poetry). She is interested in writing about the intersectionality of her identities. In her free time, she hosts the Mx. Asian American podcast.
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