by kyung
I’m getting off the train again. In distance,
you’re walking in linen. Rolled black shorts.
I river to you. Your grin slakes before
you see me. Our old friendship hesitates.
Arid and waning, the day blooms pale
on your soles lipping water. Limbs scrape
lithic teeth in lips of algae. We barely scale
the pier. Your laughter sunset, wide-awake.
The moon abates. A park bench steeps
knee-deep in summer’s ssuk. Brimmed
moment of truth. I thrum wind, steal
slack to warm stone. You catch crimson.
kyung is a street herbalist, leatherworker, and welder-in-training. They live on Peoria, Potawatomi, Miami, Sioux, Kickapoo, and Kaskaskia lands in South Side Chicago. Their recent poetry appears in Seventh Wav, Lullwater Review, Meridian, and elsewhere.