KD
  • Home
  • About
    • Contributors List
    • KD's Blog
    • Award Nominations
    • Support
    • Contact
  • Press
  • Issues
    • Issue 49
    • Issue 48
    • Issue 47
    • Issue 46
    • Issue 45
    • Issue 44
    • Issue 43
    • Issue 42
    • Issue 41
    • Issue 40
    • Issue 39
    • Issue 38
    • Issue 37
    • Issue 36
    • Issue 35
    • Issue 34
    • Issue 33
    • Issue 32
    • Issue 31
    • 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

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.

Biography

Picture
​Iris Yu (she/her) is a Chinese-American student from Ohio. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in GASHER Journal, Vagabond City Lit, and Sine Theta Magazine, among others. She is an alumna of the Iowa Young Writers Studio and a 2020 Pushcart Prize Nominee. 
back to issue
​Next Poem →
Picture
ISSN 2639-426X
© COPYRIGHT 2018-2021. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
  • Home
  • About
    • Contributors List
    • KD's Blog
    • Award Nominations
    • Support
    • Contact
  • Press
  • Issues
    • Issue 49
    • Issue 48
    • Issue 47
    • Issue 46
    • Issue 45
    • Issue 44
    • Issue 43
    • Issue 42
    • Issue 41
    • Issue 40
    • Issue 39
    • Issue 38
    • Issue 37
    • Issue 36
    • Issue 35
    • Issue 34
    • Issue 33
    • Issue 32
    • Issue 31
    • 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