By Margaret Zhang
Levi, the oysters still clamber against shore,
latch onto fly-by-night toenails the way you
snap on my index joint, eyes twinkling like bent
corners of a parchment page. This day, you clamp
onto me and refuse to let go. We’ll find
happiness in the crests of the waves, you promise,
and so we amble, like tourists, amid disintegrating
towers that rake the blue-white splatter
of the heavens. Towers so untamed they cannot
exist beyond the grainy sands of our hourglass,
and yet they do. We merely warm the bench
and observe the fallen towers, neither scribbling
revolutions on our paper eyelids nor showing
people what a heaven this world could be if only
they tried. Maybe we’re too content to care.
Maybe we don’t yet believe it ourselves.
I press my
to your balmy
lips, for you
are a red-tailed
lonely as I
you let me
go, drop back into
the foam with
a tiny plop.
Levi, did you
in my mouth.
you know? Even
“I will be happy tomorrow,” I tell myself a million
times. But tomorrow never waits for me to catch up,
never takes my heavy limbs in the crevices of his
hands. Levi, I don’t know how to dance anymore.
Maybe my arms ache too much to move, or maybe
my toes never taught me how. Maybe I’ll stamp
my sandals into your footprints, dear Levi, find black
pearls scattered across a black shore. Maybe I’ll pick
out grains of salt from my molar cavities and call them
the type of metropolitan paradise I always wanted.
Margaret Zhang didn’t always love to write. But in 4th grade, the belief that she had superpowers sparked her interest in storytelling, and her life has revolved around creative writing ever since. She is a Foyle Young Poet, a recipient of numerous Scholastic medials, and one of the founders and editors-in-chief of Glass Kite Anthology. She currently attends Castilleja as a sophomore. At this point in her life, she is a Holden Caulfield who wants to be an Atticus Finch.