Maxwell Suzuki
Burn, Tan, Peel
A hot fluttering of crisp skin collects
at the cuticles of my keyboard. Fall
managing to slough all of its color
and none of its body. Limbs bleaching
themselves because they are terrified
of what happens to spoiled
honey. On a visit to my Aunt’s
in Orange County, I had proclaimed
not needing sunscreen before going
to the beach. Later, my torso
could recollect the violence
of the tangerine surf. Its Imperial
Red soon mended in Aloe and apple
juice. The lesson was quickly
shucked back into the Pacific. I forget
my sunscreen sometimes. Noting
the Rising Sun of a blistering
summer—and then its de-
colonization. A tan questioning
my hyphen. And blaming
myself when I can-
not pronounce nori. Now,
Spring is fading and I
do not know if
I am worthy of
containing a
sunset.
at the cuticles of my keyboard. Fall
managing to slough all of its color
and none of its body. Limbs bleaching
themselves because they are terrified
of what happens to spoiled
honey. On a visit to my Aunt’s
in Orange County, I had proclaimed
not needing sunscreen before going
to the beach. Later, my torso
could recollect the violence
of the tangerine surf. Its Imperial
Red soon mended in Aloe and apple
juice. The lesson was quickly
shucked back into the Pacific. I forget
my sunscreen sometimes. Noting
the Rising Sun of a blistering
summer—and then its de-
colonization. A tan questioning
my hyphen. And blaming
myself when I can-
not pronounce nori. Now,
Spring is fading and I
do not know if
I am worthy of
containing a
sunset.
Biography
Maxwell Suzuki (he/him) is a Japanese American writer who recently graduated from USC and lives in Los Angeles. Maxwell's work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Woven Tale Press, Giving Room Mag, The Racket Journal, Abandon Journal, and his personal website www.lindenandbuckskin.com. He is currently writing a novel on the generational disconnect of Japanese American immigrants and their children.
Twitter: @papasuzuki |