in the window, the sun burrows into the sky and i only long for the mint blue of the pool—not because of the heat staining my bed like fallen marigold petals—but because this fist-sized summer reminds me of the one that came before, that came before. early morning taps out a story on the bed frame for the ones you and i will never say aloud, I’m sorry, as inseparable as the laughter i don by the brick wall on 33rd when i remember this is it. i say it, not as an answer, but as a question to never receive (though i know i won’t) because who knows, you say over the phone as if you’re speaking to your stepfather instead. i spit out a laugh, press the heel of my boot into the shards of a wine bottle on the street. when i come home, it doesn’t feel mine. i trip up the stairs and catch myself in the bathroom mirror, a lone figure in blue--no is the threadbare whisper of the sun’s reflection crawling into the pool.
Esther Kim is a Korean-American writer from Potomac, Maryland. Her poetry is forthcoming or published in Diode, Up the Staircase Quarterly, and SOFTBLOW. She has been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards and the Poetry Society of the UK. Twitter: @kimeyoonjin; Instagram: @kimeyoonjin.