Mar 2018
one match.
when I was young I prayed that I would never grow up,
that I might always laugh at the way my best friend
pressed her lips to the side of her eggshell white hand
and fabricated a glorious, cacophonous ****
at the Genentech trolleys on Grand Avenue
which obligingly tooted their whistles in response
when we hollered “Jesus loves you” at them
from behind the school’s shuddering, rusted fence.
fourteen years of friendship later, we laugh
at how the lasagna we make at her place
slips and drips with too much cheese
over cups of lukewarm soda
and I find myself glad we have aged well.
two matches.
whoever said money can’t buy happiness
clearly never had to eat discounted Chinese food for a year.
the fried rice swims in oil or drowns in salt and
lettuce droops sadly on my fork. no spine.
I manage to bully my father into getting the BBQ pork instead of the beef and broccoli.
small victories are all we have.
it is said that we tricked Zeus into taking the fat for his altars
instead of the good meat,
but the fat hoards flavor,
even if it has no value.
value, I find, is an opinion,
and I ignore my sister’s warnings
when she tells me not to eat the skin off the fried chicken,
unhealthy but all-too-tasty crunch.
three matches.
the commute to school is rough for the first few weeks,
on the soggy dregs of my last summer paycheck.
morning dew makes the stone seats at the train station
no man’s land.
the mornings grow easier when I learn to admire
the way the train howls when it arrives, demanding attention,
and the way it hums contentedly when it leaves
with a belly full of passengers.
the hour long journey is easier now that I wave
to the man who sits on his porch near Sunnyvale
around 9:20, and at 9:25,
I invent reasons for why someone is growing
a square yard of corn in their backyard.
seventeen matches.
the pains of my past bring laughter now. the last cold breath of winter
washed away by the clean, fragrant air of spring
and the obnoxious dandelions blooming in my front yard
that I make a point to punt when I leave in the mornings.
I thought spite would push me forward, green-hearted, hollow,
but it is my joy at my daily morning bagel
my love for the cheap dining hall pasta
and not the subpar sushi burrito
that sustains me. somehow
the hollow things become hallow.
empty matchbox.
I remember God in the way
that the yellow roses in my front yard rebel,
resisting parching droughts and relentless bugs
fifteen years strong without a drop of water from our hands,
clipped from the neighbor’s rosebush
boldly invading our old backyard in the city.
each season, withered to barren, grayed thorns,
but the sunrise illuminates a single bud
despite the odds.
my hope is, then,
that the coldest winter will always lead
to the bright, golden mornings of spring,
that I might thaw the ice set in your bones from
the chill of ill-fated loves.
it is good to know the grief of death
to savor the joy of life
just as I wish these words
might be your persistent roses.
when I was young I prayed that I would never grow up,
that I might always laugh at the way my best friend
pressed her lips to the side of her eggshell white hand
and fabricated a glorious, cacophonous ****
at the Genentech trolleys on Grand Avenue
which obligingly tooted their whistles in response
when we hollered “Jesus loves you” at them
from behind the school’s shuddering, rusted fence.
fourteen years of friendship later, we laugh
at how the lasagna we make at her place
slips and drips with too much cheese
over cups of lukewarm soda
and I find myself glad we have aged well.
two matches.
whoever said money can’t buy happiness
clearly never had to eat discounted Chinese food for a year.
the fried rice swims in oil or drowns in salt and
lettuce droops sadly on my fork. no spine.
I manage to bully my father into getting the BBQ pork instead of the beef and broccoli.
small victories are all we have.
it is said that we tricked Zeus into taking the fat for his altars
instead of the good meat,
but the fat hoards flavor,
even if it has no value.
value, I find, is an opinion,
and I ignore my sister’s warnings
when she tells me not to eat the skin off the fried chicken,
unhealthy but all-too-tasty crunch.
three matches.
the commute to school is rough for the first few weeks,
on the soggy dregs of my last summer paycheck.
morning dew makes the stone seats at the train station
no man’s land.
the mornings grow easier when I learn to admire
the way the train howls when it arrives, demanding attention,
and the way it hums contentedly when it leaves
with a belly full of passengers.
the hour long journey is easier now that I wave
to the man who sits on his porch near Sunnyvale
around 9:20, and at 9:25,
I invent reasons for why someone is growing
a square yard of corn in their backyard.
seventeen matches.
the pains of my past bring laughter now. the last cold breath of winter
washed away by the clean, fragrant air of spring
and the obnoxious dandelions blooming in my front yard
that I make a point to punt when I leave in the mornings.
I thought spite would push me forward, green-hearted, hollow,
but it is my joy at my daily morning bagel
my love for the cheap dining hall pasta
and not the subpar sushi burrito
that sustains me. somehow
the hollow things become hallow.
empty matchbox.
I remember God in the way
that the yellow roses in my front yard rebel,
resisting parching droughts and relentless bugs
fifteen years strong without a drop of water from our hands,
clipped from the neighbor’s rosebush
boldly invading our old backyard in the city.
each season, withered to barren, grayed thorns,
but the sunrise illuminates a single bud
despite the odds.
my hope is, then,
that the coldest winter will always lead
to the bright, golden mornings of spring,
that I might thaw the ice set in your bones from
the chill of ill-fated loves.
it is good to know the grief of death
to savor the joy of life
just as I wish these words
might be your persistent roses.
a prelude
