Posts Tagged: Emily Yin

Pink plastic beads      strung round my neck for Mardi Gras,

relic of my girlhood      like Tamagotchis & Silly Bandz &—carry this,

it’s Zinfandel, the type of wine my mother used to sip      before bedtime,

eyes welling      with unshed tears. Three flasks      bundled

into a flannel shirt we’ll be late

for the party placed tenderly      into my dumbstruck arms.

Go on now      into the hallway crackling with silence,

into the gasping night. & I—& I, all gaping wide-eyed wonder—

I’m acting so terribly young      tonight.

Still, these are the things about which

I’ll write: dollar-store mascara clumping

like darkened snow, a dim halo dismantling

my upturned face, bare skin brooking no lies—so yes,

maybe I’ll play pretend for just a while

here, in this strange world light years from my own

here, with this boy who swears      I’m indestructible.

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