2 poems

By Ada Gong

Detroit Country Day School

Plastic slide

the length of the slide stretches along my full body
as i lie on it, backwards. my head on the foot, 
my feet at the head. my body submerged by walls,
walls of plastic like the ocean’s froth hardened,
my mind in the sky, my heart in the hourglass 
untipped. the sound of kids yelling in the playground
is the lullaby plays in my ears as a young girl slides
down, moving in antiparallel.
her pigtails fly in the air, mirroring the vitality
in her eyes that avoid my somber ones. 
i see her old drawings filling her walls with paper birds,
attached by ringlets of scotch tape threatening to free fall.
her high school graduation speech saturated with 
colorful adjectives and thankyous, a reflection of the 
letter she wrote to her older self, back in
middle school. the drinks she’ll have with her friends despite
her low tolerance, the comments from her boss at work
that leave the taste of raw tea leaves pulled from the earth
a month or so too early. the songs she’ll belt in 
karaoke about her first love who cheated on her,
but also the man she’ll eventually marry, and
the child they’ll bring to life in the season where
flowers bloom, along with vacations and honeymoons, filled
with sunrises, glimmering lights, and warm rice stuck
on corners of mouths, but not nearly as fulfilling 
as the smiling picture frames, the house filled to the 
brim, the green garden that grows 
tomatoes, roses, memories flying past with the paper birds in the air.
the gardening shovel and gloves on the ground
tossed aside like the walking cane next to a white bed. 
the letter, once referenced, but forever unopened.
the song unchanged,
the body enclosed by a fancy plastic,
preserved like her story.

i keep waiting, on the slide.
my feet in the dark blue clouds,
the hair on my head scraping the wet earth. 
i laugh.
someone asks me if i’m drunk,
i lie, and say i’m underage.

TRuth

I. truth
Truthfully, 
I am Hou Yi who shoots down the nine suns,
The greatest archer,
Tasked by the emperor to carry a great responsibility. 
I am Chang’e who is the goddess of the moon,
The immortal beauty,
Residing in the realm closest to heaven.
I am the Rat who triumphs over the other animals,
The small and mighty,
Winning the race, with cleverness and wit, to become first. 
I am the color red, 
The lucky color,
Making the hideous monster Nian tremble with fear.

II. lie
she eats her sticky white rice
in the bathtub, with her hair
wet. her face wet. her eyes stained 
with red. her face with salt. her soul
with fear. the scent of freesia, or a kind of 
floral perfume lingers around. she only gets up briefly, to 
close the window, stopping the light breeze,
that tickled her skin, and burned it all up.
she stares at the mirror in front of her,
the only thing she sees is a 
distorted reflection. it makes her features
look puny, and silly, with the grains of rice
stuck on the corner of her mouth,
a regret. or two. or more, 
not the first, nor last.
she turns off the lights, left in
darkness. she imagines she is one with
the stars, knowing too well she cannot 
be even close to being leagues upon
leagues from the moon. or the 
sun. not a sun god nor moon goddess,
far from being someone’s son
or daughter. she is not the sky, 
but rather a weight in the bathtub, counting 
the imaginary suns in her head,
like the days she spent counting 
the cold tiles, the grains of rice,
the teardrops and the days, 
and the wishes (or the single wish)
to wash herself
out of existence

Ada Gong is a junior at Detroit Country Day School. Her works appear or are forthcoming in TeenInk and the Albion Review and have been recognized by Scholastic Art and Writing and Hollins University among others. Outside of writing, Ada likes to play with her British shorthair cat, listen to R&B, and advocate that (good) matcha does not taste like grass.