ghost town lamentation (ii)
something here is ending. summer lodged between my molars, desecrating cavities into this little pocket i once called home. a few poppies
straying here and there, dilapidating on an asphalt tongue.
here, time seems to weep molasses, a sleepy town so very in love
with its tenants and a lone humbug. two cents for a pop. funny how
we used to take to the streets with plastic crowns, our mothers’ wombs still
attached to our hind legs—the certainty of it. swallowing cicadas
to alleviate the acid curdling in our bellies + bleeding all over, nursing
the backs of our knees. here, wailing tires sinking maddening teeth
into roadkill. two trucks, a beer, and—an accident, maybe. or perhaps
it was the neighborhood boy. shuttered windows steeped in day-old nostalgia,
returning to a rental home with heavy eyes and fondling a broken mattress
spring. perhaps something is ending. i wasn’t sure what, but now
my body is contorted over a bisected [CLOSED] sign + i’m moving out.
By Naomi Ling
Naomi Ling is a Sino-American student poet and editor on the East Coast, USA. Her poetry and prose often grapple with identity, nostalgia, and most importantly of all, returning to her roots. The founder and EIC of Gossamer Lit, she is also a staff editor for Outlander Zine and Interstellar Review. Her work has been recognized with National Gold and Silver Medals by the Scholastic Writing Awards and is published or forthcoming in Cathartic Lit, Heritage Review, Ice Lolly Review, Trouvaille Review, The Contrarian Mag, among other journals. She thinks you should go and hug a loved one right now.