At night she folds herself into one, filmy,
shrinkwrapped and bound by things that

puncture the mind and sink under surface, dead-
bark and wood. At first the cover proves

unmalleable much like a globe but to press a
finger in and dig up pulls Algeria to Greenland,

oceans kneaded, nations overturned. At the
heart of it sidles up four walls on each side of her,

foreign, like the inner skin of ice when it tries to
flower. In the end only one clover remains

standing, its membrane of leaves threadbare, pushing
against light, the feeling of multiplying and rising

and fading all at once. At night she folds herelf in,
can never get out. Dreaming in different colors

like religions, bowing to a single word.

By Yejin Suh


Yejin Suh is an aspiring writer from New Jersey who appears or is forthcoming in Half Mystic, Juke Joint Mag, and Prometheus Dreaming, among others.

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