Say it again, and your jaw borrows space
from the cave of fishbone
you’ve set aside to call home.
It’s called remission.
The fisherman hooking tuna
back into the water.
these frail things clenching
their jaws onto sticks.
Twists and more twists.
A refund you can’t look away from
after all these months searching.
You expect to find fish in puddles:
tongue lapping the surface,
rupturing your own reflection.
Steven Chung is a recently graduated high school student who lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. His work has been recognized by The Poetry Society and Bennington College. Poems of his appear or are forthcoming in the Financial Times, Passages North, Rattle, Redivider, BOAAT, and elsewhere. He was born in 1999.