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.
Biography
|
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.
|
