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Art by Annette Seo

Writing by Katherine Wei

Home Unfiltered
after Ross Gay’s “Bringing the Shovel Down”
 
The pavement we drive on flowers with cul-de-sacs and yellow,
white seams. They lure drooling eyes toward the elusive dream.
 
My family moves to a house with a garden surrounded by a white picket fence.
Neighborhood lilacs grow along the sidewalk and robins perch in the hackberry tree.
 
The girl next door, blonde and forgettable, comes over to eat with me.
She says something about my food stenching and then goes back home.
 
I beg my parents for Lunchables instead of egg rolls, watch a part of me flay.
She comes back, forgetting the smell and with a bright pink hula-hoop.
 
She and I learn to move our hips for a brunette boy, who, like the other kids,
mistakes my eyes for the buttonholes in my moth-eaten flannel.
 
She and I learn to forgive when only one of us gets the boy,
while the other sells herself to the study of how bodies adapt to environments.
 
As I walk home from school, the sultry evening air engulfs me,
and I sink into the pot-holed roadway and stare.
 
Her house still seems sweet and swirly: brushstrokes from The Starry Night.
My house sits under the shadow, molding itself with cookie-cutters to fit in.
 
That night, I decide to rearrange the constellations to map a different life.
That night, I marinate under my stolen stars...


Home Filtered
after Ross Gay’s “Again”
 
The pavement we drive on flowers with cul-de-sacs and yellow,
white seams. They lure drooling eyes toward the American dream.
 
My family moves to a house with a garden surrounded by a white picket fence.
Neighborly lilacs grow along the sidewalk and robins perch in the hackberry tree.
 
The girl next door, blonde and unforgettable, comes over to eat with me.
She says something about my food while salivating, wide-eyed.
 
I try her Lunchables while she nibbles at my egg rolls, watch our laughter replay.
She often comes back, forgetting her curfew and with a bright pink hula-hoop.
 
We learn to move our hips for a brunette boy, who, like the other kids,
welcomes me into their woodchip empire: slides, swings, monkey bars too.  
 
We learn to forgive when only one of us gets the boy,
since the other discovers herself in the study of how countries reach peace.
 
As we walk home from school, the crisp evening air embraces us.
We settle ourselves along the pot-holed roadway and stare.
 
Our houses seem sweet and swirly: brushstrokes from The Starry Night.
We watch shadows bubble up into the sky then burst into kaleidoscopes.
 
That night, I decide to spin a web of constellations into a dreamcatcher.
That night, I marinate under my seemingly real stars.