and unearth an old polaroid
from underneath sweaters and drawer lint.
A young girl clutching a teddy bear
spools her thin hair from chestnuts, eyebrows
straight and barren as Beijing’s countryside.
She smiles like a rose. In another universe
you think you see yourself.
from underneath sweaters and drawer lint.
A young girl clutching a teddy bear
spools her thin hair from chestnuts, eyebrows
straight and barren as Beijing’s countryside.
She smiles like a rose. In another universe
you think you see yourself.
As a child, you raided your mother’s closet
for vintage delights. You mistook fashion for
familiarity, thought you could mold yourself.
You did not know her softness.
The perfume of girlhood was temporary.
There are other ways of becoming.
Inevitability is an echo, a garden
already growing within you. Girl, you were
born with your mother’s plane ticket crumpled
in your fist. You shirk from the ocean she swallowed
for you, her glacier gaze. These shores, rocky
and wrecked with war. One day
you will carry them for her.
At the mall, you are once again mistaken
for your mother—you who unraveled
your last threads to her likeness. No
mascara can hide it. You can’t escape.
Iris Cai is a junior from the SF Bay Area. Her poetry has been recognized by the Poetry Society of America, Gannon University, and the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers, and is published in or forthcoming from On the Seawall, Neologism Poetry Journal, Eunoia Review, and elsewhere. An alumna of the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio, she is also co-founder and editor-in-chief of Eucalyptus Lit. When she’s not writing, Iris plays piano and takes too many pictures of her cat.