a garden yet to be planted:
what if the both of us, yet
to be planted in the dearth
of two simple suns, amber
undoing winter’s wrongs.
a tie around her pinky finger
reminds that flesh is fleeting
similar to a kitchen glow,
echoing across this apartment
that is altogether ours echo
echo the same song needs
to, need to play an oblivion
of spells when the rain forgets
you’re wondering when the
poem gets green, when the
ikea table is unearthed from
paint chips and is cast out
the bay window an all-out
tantrum where belongings
revolt and build communes
from every one avocado pit
the queen swallowtail sits at
her new desk, awaiting every
other surface that supervenes
for an entire little life, brims
with infinite cinnamon scrolls
and folds into a two month
yoga stint, no one ever told me
that a habit could make you
believe in new things again
words mince garlic buds
(a seed drops in the space
between them and now)
something mornings dipped
dewy drooling a mouth open
the day perching beside us
asking what’s for breakfast
Julia Yong is a poet and perpetual student, currently rooted in Philadelphia, PA. She is the Editor-in-Chief of Temple University’s esteemed undergraduate literary and art magazine, Hyphen. Her poems have received recognition from The Academy of American Poets, SORTES, JMWW, and Moonstone Arts Center, among others. If you so please, you can find more information about Julia here: juliayonglaf.tilda.ws/.