Iris Yu
Home Remedies
after “seven” by Taylor Swift
This is what I didn’t tell you last
summer: I don’t remember the sour
of Midwestern rain. Sometimes, when I’m
home alone, I squeeze lemons over my
lips to replicate the sting of acid
down throat. I miss you incessantly.
I wish we’d kissed. I still make airplanes
out of cardboard boxes and dream
of leaving with you. When it rains city
rain, I knot my fingers in sidewalk
dandelions and twist them into
braids. I bottle morning dew
and drink it with apple cider
vinegar. I run hot water until my
bathroom bleeds fog; in the mirror,
I fingerpaint your face and get something
wrong every night—lips too thin, nose too
broad. Eventually, the steam condenses
and I’m left with my reflection instead of
yours. I have no roommates but I knock
on the apartment door as if you’ll answer.
On beaches, I spell out your name
in the sand and gift it to the ocean. I don’t
remember your last words to me but I
imagine they were about omnipresence.
I think of you whenever I drink
lemonade. Once, I took it with tequila
to forget you and instead I hallucinated
your hands holding back my hair as I
puked. I woke up smelling like piss,
vomit on my cheeks.
This is what I didn’t tell you last
summer: I don’t remember the sour
of Midwestern rain. Sometimes, when I’m
home alone, I squeeze lemons over my
lips to replicate the sting of acid
down throat. I miss you incessantly.
I wish we’d kissed. I still make airplanes
out of cardboard boxes and dream
of leaving with you. When it rains city
rain, I knot my fingers in sidewalk
dandelions and twist them into
braids. I bottle morning dew
and drink it with apple cider
vinegar. I run hot water until my
bathroom bleeds fog; in the mirror,
I fingerpaint your face and get something
wrong every night—lips too thin, nose too
broad. Eventually, the steam condenses
and I’m left with my reflection instead of
yours. I have no roommates but I knock
on the apartment door as if you’ll answer.
On beaches, I spell out your name
in the sand and gift it to the ocean. I don’t
remember your last words to me but I
imagine they were about omnipresence.
I think of you whenever I drink
lemonade. Once, I took it with tequila
to forget you and instead I hallucinated
your hands holding back my hair as I
puked. I woke up smelling like piss,
vomit on my cheeks.