After I recovered from an asthma attack,
I thought I was immortal: no limit to my
body temperature, face pale as whitecaps
collapsing onto sandshore. I diagnose
Thursday’s tornado warning as Tuvula’s
last breath and stop using my inhaler, birdsong
wilting away like rainforest green—
endangered colors. How the Rubber Tree falls
in silence and suffocation. This planet is burning
out of air. In Little Hunting Creek, fast food
coupons inside the stomach of a plastic bag.
At Costco, Mama buys wholesale blueberries,
too sore from bending into heating curves.
We remember how she used to name tomatoes
by their size—taiyang, sun, sweet privilege of
a balanced meal. Flower pots paint our balcony,
and I just want another midday snack, strawberries
in my hands, every seed to seed, first touch of juice
and juice, from fruit to flower. I want something that lasts
longer than the lifespan of kerosene, like Giant Penguins
and Wakatobi Sunbirds and even apple cores
in compost bins. I want healing to grow from this soil,
gardens sleeping in school classrooms, playgrounds,
raised medians—seedlings. Before loss is synonymous
to this memory of first snowfall, I will meditate
as the ocean closes its eyes—deep breathing.
Translations:
taiyang – sun
This poem first appeared in the Bow Seat Ocean Awareness Contest Gallery.
—
Chelsea Zhu is a teen writer and environmental advocate from Maryland. Chelsea loves summer, stargazing, and skiing.
