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Emma Zhang

resonance

​how everything is just one thing away from nothing. we walk past
dry creek on a sunday afternoon muttering density, research, eclipse, cranes erupting
like bean sprouts from city corners, triumphant with the time they will create.
cigarettes, back corners, mondays drawing staves by the pool deck. she says:
the first step to growing up is to hear the birds sing again, so i wait under the willow tree,
braiding my shoelaces like you taught me in fourth grade. and come nightfall,
she bangs the windows, rolling dough into some elongated triangle, remember the carnivals?
and i no longer call my grandparents but i fold my clothes like they taught me to,
a peninsula of straight lines with a dip. and they tell me you have until i’m 80
and i've never understood the use of wind chimes except to shine where it hurts the least,
quench the call of church bells and ragweed and yearning for jawbreakers.        & i stayed,
i've always stayed. the creek is drying and our family friends are driving out of the same
ivy lined gates and nothing is just one thing soft still holding you.

Biography

Picture
Emma Zhang (she/her) is a Chinese American writer from San Jose, California. Her work has been recognized by The Adroit Prizes, and appears in Up North Lit, Evocations Review, among others. She reads for Aster Lit and The Adroit Journal and is endlessly fascinated by doorknobs.
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ISSN 2639-426X
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    • Issue 30
    • Issue 29
    • Issue 28
    • Issue 27
    • Issue 26
    • Issue 25
    • Issue 24
    • Issue 23
    • Issue 22
    • Issue 21
    • Issue 20
    • Issue 19
    • Issue 18
    • Serenity
    • Issue 17
    • The Audio Room
    • Issue 16
    • Issue 15
    • Issue 14
    • Play It Again
    • Issue 13
    • Issue 12
    • Issue 11
    • Issue 10
    • Issue 9
    • Issue 8
    • Issue 7
    • Issue 6
    • Hand to Mouth
    • Issue 5
    • Issue 4
    • Issue 3
    • Issue 2
    • Issue 1
  • Submissions