the back of the wind — Jennifer Choi
1.
before summer arrived, i was told to turn on the air conditioner.
the repairman on the screen was old & simple, with worn-out buttons.
as he took the air conditioner apart, orderly rain began to fall,
& last spring, the air conditioner had stayed alive for a while.
2.
whenever the wind stirred in the empty house, hunger crept in.
the typhoon gathered broken gusts of wind each night & filled my old belly.
gripping my puffed-up collar, as i breathed cold air into the corners of the house,
the name “you” grew lighter & lighter.
from the television to the clock & even the crumpled shoes,
on the day they left their backs behind & rose,
my shadow & i stopped sending out the names of the dead.
3.
the coiled intestines endlessly sucked in something.
countless thoughts & unfamiliar seeds passed through the damp passage, growing into sounds.
the weight & moisture were constantly worn away,
so i knew that one day the rattling propeller would stop & the door would fold.
but while wiping my coughing nose, the house continued to grow heavier.
thin skin brushed the walls & expanded.
in every corner of the room, where summer colds sprouted like new buds,
small gravestones were quietly set up.
4.
rumors, having lost their direction, whispered at the door / sharp temperatures broke through / carried by the wind / before the dark clouds arrived, i sat down, carving & hammering / the doors that had roughly sprouted / in the long tunnel where inside & outside were reversed / i unknowingly consumed the things that had swollen / the outside had long ago kidnapped the inside / & with the sharp hail, like rain, i caught it in my hat, my heart slowly racing / along the dust-covered canopy, a waterway began to form / i walked slowly inside the watering can, which tilted as if about to fall.
5.
don’t ask, what shape is the shadow on the shore without the moon & sun?
what color are the patterns of the seasons crossing the floor?
where do the tears of the stars that fluttered fall & grow?
6.
outside the frozen frame, the season, braided & spiraled, hides its end & runs away.
i open the slightly gentle, passive air conditioner & take a deep breath.
the white, flat buttons rise with the wind, like dry grass.
because i am transparent, because i am sitting,
i can swim farther than anyone.
Jennifer Choi is a passionate high school student. Her work has previously been published or is forthcoming in Altered Reality Magazine, Academy of Heart and Mind, and Culterate Magazine among others.