By Lynn Wang
I think early on I was dropped here by a spaceship and that’s why my brain is full of sharp red light instead of words and why no amount of air can make me catch my breath. Maybe my ship beamed me down under the pretense that it needed to make a private call or see if the transporter was working or blast around looking for soda and cigarettes. Maybe I believed it. Either way I must have waited a while on the ground, checking the sky until human hearthurt, that quick black mist, claimed me as its own. And now I’m found in strange tall places in the middle of the night, blindly climbing trees as if my life depended on it. As if climbing to someone who depended on my life.
Lynn Wang, M.F.A. ’16, earned a B.A. in English at UCI in 2011. Her poems have been published in The Journal and Zócalo Public Square. She lives and works odd jobs in Los Angeles.