2022-06-11 #writing/poetry #poem-a-day
coping mechanisms when she told me she liked me & I didn’t feel the same, I remembered my grandma’s old Toyota Corolla,
covered with teal plush cushions & leaking stale incense from its corners. How she drove because it was the only
action she could take without our help, with her misshapen words & rejected tongue. A land that felt the same in all the ways your skin stuck to your clothes & mosquitos feasted alongside you in the summer & the honking of impatient beasts gave an uncertain sense of comfort & still, grasping at the invisible threads of connection with amputated hands & empty holes for buckets.
You came to this place to find better But this strange land taught you better Its weeds surrounding your limbs suffocating flowers. Your Corolla never looked better shining in the bright summer sun streaming down the interstate.
your corolla — your american dream, your amulet of assimilation