Stephanie Chang

Moonflower

In the blue grass, the one who is worth it all. Somewhere in Ohio, I mistake the field for a sky. I wake to eyes grazed red by wind. This is the closest thing to love: two turtles blinking across parallel lines. This is the closest thing to a promise: your palms. Still and still not swallowed by nightfall. Somebody has braided my hair with lakewater. Sunlight cinches my waist. The coffee grows cold on the veranda, a thousand tiny organisms blossoming in the bitterness. It is mine and mine alone. It is only summer, and possible that I am no longer promised to you.

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