to a childhood friend By Mira Jiang

to a childhood friend

remember the spring we spent clearing brush from
the grove between the pitted stone walls, grit crunching
between our teeth, hollow vines and limestone campfires
flickering shadows in the night
lost in worlds of warrior clans and mermaid queens
before running home to watermelon smoothies.
remember the fraying tire swing, sunscorched rubber
scalding our hands, we jumped at the peak
and joined the mockingbirds among the trees
if only for a moment.
remember the day we painted our names
in front of your old house, fingers stained with colors
of tropical islands we imagined we could escape to
before california took you away.

remember this and know that when i say
i want to see you, i don’t mean you
i mean you, the girl who shot arrows
at the mulberries, built leaf forts in the fall, danced with
pinatas around the room, chased crickets
in the yard, read books in the treetops, and watched
the stars rise curled next to me on dewy grass before
the fireworks lit up the sky on the fourth of july.

where did you go?

By Mira Jiang


Mira Jiang lives and attends school in a suburb near Dallas. Apart from a brief stint in China, she was born and raised in Texas. Her work has been recognized in contests from Hollins University, the Poetry Matters Project, and the Geek Partnership Society.

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