American Literary Magazine
A Premonition of Philophobia Callie Lau Editor’s Choice After the pandemic we’ll realize That there are only two kinds of people I Who upon smelling the ocean run into the waves with open arms, swimming till there’s salt in their lungs and sand in their lashes, laughing as if they’ve just discovered the magic of a giggle, how it spreads, how it wakes the heart, Who couldn’t care less about wet clothes or scowls of strangers while prancing across the beach, collecting pretty pebbles and strangely shaped shells; Don’t blame them for they are creatures of hope, who have lived on land all this time, dreaming of the day they return to sea II Who perch by the shore, lost hands afraid to touch the world outside skin, a shade of too-little-sunlight and too-much-soap ears, listening to waves washing against rocks like a war of words whose muffled syllables are indecipherable, but whose crashing release of built-up tension they feel perfectly Imagine, living with a screaming silence for so long one forgets how to speak, living with loneliness till they forget there was a time they were not alone And now even when the sea rushes to tickle their toes and strangers smile, they retreat six feet away, a social distance
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