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A quarterly international literary journal


/ Poetry /

I don’t understand why the sun keeps dipping

below the horizon, spinning

the sky into pinks and oranges and reds I used to dream

I’d live

here in Los Angeles

where the roses smell like summer in January

I want to smother my body in roses

to smell like the rose soft serve from Xinjiekou

that I savored on a crowded sidewalk surrounded

by honking cars & exhaling buses & a babble

I prayed to understand — oh,

that soft serve tasted like heaven,

& I’ve chased it ever since.

Why am I thinking about that soft serve?

You’re about to start chemo.

You insist you’re not dying.

I’m afraid you are.


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