By Casey “Yaya” Wong
weeds are sprouting from the cracks in the concrete.
the old skin splits with the determination of things starved for sunlight
one or two of which will become dandelions,
their weightless wishes on the back of a breeze
which smells sweet but reminds me of myself
i watch the stratosphere spin westward
and i stay,
lying on the afternoon-cooled earth,
until my skin becomes soil.
the southern summer wind howls through.
一sometimes i wonder if we are stationary, and time moves through us,
the old cow pastures are riddled with the carcasses of farmhouses
scattered and rusted
rotted teeth of small towns
somewhere there is a person who sleeps without nightmares,
the debris of love pinned above their bed like dreamcatchers.
they can ignore the cavities in my conscience that
eat away at my bone.