It’s dead outside: January baring another parish:
wing bones singed over fire, a damask on oak tabletop.
A month where young boys don’t listen, toss white tea bags
into chary mugs. At morning’s quake, we sit
along the foyer, sky pale as a croaker’s underbelly,
us – girls with their cherries. The color outside fletcherizes
in our mouths, softens until we forget that we masticate.
Somehow we posit the ungamely sin, thumb
through hours like a picture book, learning to read.
Afternoon arrives with a downfall, the ground larded
fat as shoat. Our toes curled caterpillars. Under the rain,
the drops do not faze us. We fling our heads back
with our mouths opening and closing like fish.
Alisha Yi is a writer from Las Vegas, Nevada.