Outlook
By
Jennifer Choi
A person loses their way in an alley where a black dog lies dead, its tongue hanging out.
When two people see the devil in each other's eyes, the spine of a tree snaps.
The sound of rain leads three people to the rooftop & reads them an invitation from death.
& then,
I cannot understand those words.
I had only planted a single seed,
but everything that followed unfolded.
People said I had raised a monster,
that all of this started with my fingertips.
If it cannot be set right,
an old man once begged, holding out a wooden plank, for his own death.
Children secretly climbed over the fence, trampled every sprout in the garden, & fled.
What kind of gaze was it?
When four people kicked a crippled dog without mercy, five houses were swept away by a storm,
& when six people were trapped in fire, laughter echoed as the barn door was locked.
The seed is within my heart.
In front of a mirror that has never shown its face,
I measure the speed at which malice seeps into my soul.
Traveling the distance between seed & monster,
I fight against the summer that seeks to destroy me.
The Left Turn
To the ghost,
The alley where I was born and raised is a crooked shoulder.
With our arms apart, side by side,
We came in from the right,
but we don't leave from the right.
I didn't know there was a left.
As if tearing open a letter sealed with glue, in the dead of night,
I took joy in tearing at the corners of the alley.
Those who had died a few times threw their heads to the ground, bouncing & playing.
Young ghosts hung from the arms of the alley, making wishes:
Make me heavy, make me fat,
Let me never disappear again,
Please.
They wished through the night, dozing off in between.
I rested the head of the dozing ghost on my shoulder.
Then the young ghost twisted sharply & said,
You’ll grow old & become like me, but
Never cry on nights when everyone is asleep,
Because no one is listening.
As the day broke, an old woman in a white tank top came out,
Muttering as she peered into the flowerbed,
This flower is a geranium, this flower is a geranium.
Leaving the cigarette butts shoved by the drunks,
Her hair now even whiter,
She disappeared beyond the alley.
The sound of her slippers dragging on echoed for a while,
Then suddenly stopped.
It’s strange,
It’s strange,
To dress the dead in t-shirts, sweaters, jumpers, & coats chosen by the living,
To die with so much laundry--
The mistake of the afterlife being colder than this life.
the craftsman
the sound of machines spreads out.
at night, it echoes even farther.
there is a boy.
a monster who needs to grow a little more to become a person,
exchanging saliva & blood with others,
under the light of the night.
the factory may have closed, but it doesn't matter. the machines have stopped, & the music that seeps through the head & spreads out doesn’t end. the boy watches a sick dog lying at his feet. the dog trembles, following the rhythm of the dead music. we all have nowhere to go. we only wanted to roll beneath, like wheels. but no matter how much we roll, it’s a cliff. still, we could tremble. but now, we’ve all stopped. it doesn’t matter, though.
he lights a lighter. the only light of the night.
the boy…
welding isn’t needed, so he takes off his mask. if you want to die, tell me. the dog barks. in the night, where everything comes to a halt, smiling with an unmasked face, shining, the factory is a good place to stay because it’s full of broken walls. inside a window that blends with the darkness, the boy & the dog are dancing. let’s roll like this. the sound of machines cries out, & if it never ends, maybe we can grow a little more. let’s follow the music that bursts through the black skull. if we fall off the cliff like the dog…
outside the darkness, the adults are gathered.
the adults are always gathered,
saying that to become human,
the monster must die a little more.
the boy is left alone on the cliff.
Jennifer Choi is a passionate high school student. Her work has previously been published or is forthcoming in Incandescent Review, Altered Reality Magazine, Academy of Heart and Mind, and Culterate Magazine among others.
By
Jennifer Choi
A person loses their way in an alley where a black dog lies dead, its tongue hanging out.
When two people see the devil in each other's eyes, the spine of a tree snaps.
The sound of rain leads three people to the rooftop & reads them an invitation from death.
& then,
I cannot understand those words.
I had only planted a single seed,
but everything that followed unfolded.
People said I had raised a monster,
that all of this started with my fingertips.
If it cannot be set right,
an old man once begged, holding out a wooden plank, for his own death.
Children secretly climbed over the fence, trampled every sprout in the garden, & fled.
What kind of gaze was it?
When four people kicked a crippled dog without mercy, five houses were swept away by a storm,
& when six people were trapped in fire, laughter echoed as the barn door was locked.
The seed is within my heart.
In front of a mirror that has never shown its face,
I measure the speed at which malice seeps into my soul.
Traveling the distance between seed & monster,
I fight against the summer that seeks to destroy me.
The Left Turn
To the ghost,
The alley where I was born and raised is a crooked shoulder.
With our arms apart, side by side,
We came in from the right,
but we don't leave from the right.
I didn't know there was a left.
As if tearing open a letter sealed with glue, in the dead of night,
I took joy in tearing at the corners of the alley.
Those who had died a few times threw their heads to the ground, bouncing & playing.
Young ghosts hung from the arms of the alley, making wishes:
Make me heavy, make me fat,
Let me never disappear again,
Please.
They wished through the night, dozing off in between.
I rested the head of the dozing ghost on my shoulder.
Then the young ghost twisted sharply & said,
You’ll grow old & become like me, but
Never cry on nights when everyone is asleep,
Because no one is listening.
As the day broke, an old woman in a white tank top came out,
Muttering as she peered into the flowerbed,
This flower is a geranium, this flower is a geranium.
Leaving the cigarette butts shoved by the drunks,
Her hair now even whiter,
She disappeared beyond the alley.
The sound of her slippers dragging on echoed for a while,
Then suddenly stopped.
It’s strange,
It’s strange,
To dress the dead in t-shirts, sweaters, jumpers, & coats chosen by the living,
To die with so much laundry--
The mistake of the afterlife being colder than this life.
the craftsman
the sound of machines spreads out.
at night, it echoes even farther.
there is a boy.
a monster who needs to grow a little more to become a person,
exchanging saliva & blood with others,
under the light of the night.
the factory may have closed, but it doesn't matter. the machines have stopped, & the music that seeps through the head & spreads out doesn’t end. the boy watches a sick dog lying at his feet. the dog trembles, following the rhythm of the dead music. we all have nowhere to go. we only wanted to roll beneath, like wheels. but no matter how much we roll, it’s a cliff. still, we could tremble. but now, we’ve all stopped. it doesn’t matter, though.
he lights a lighter. the only light of the night.
the boy…
welding isn’t needed, so he takes off his mask. if you want to die, tell me. the dog barks. in the night, where everything comes to a halt, smiling with an unmasked face, shining, the factory is a good place to stay because it’s full of broken walls. inside a window that blends with the darkness, the boy & the dog are dancing. let’s roll like this. the sound of machines cries out, & if it never ends, maybe we can grow a little more. let’s follow the music that bursts through the black skull. if we fall off the cliff like the dog…
outside the darkness, the adults are gathered.
the adults are always gathered,
saying that to become human,
the monster must die a little more.
the boy is left alone on the cliff.
Jennifer Choi is a passionate high school student. Her work has previously been published or is forthcoming in Incandescent Review, Altered Reality Magazine, Academy of Heart and Mind, and Culterate Magazine among others.
