Pristiq Annie Zhao

THEIR VIEWS Mohana Ghosh

HIS VIEW

I spy my father on the balcony torn with agony questioning his nationality

he picks me up so I can see what he sees the breeze b i l l o w i n g the trees, the Ganges

this is his childhood view, but the trees are taller now but he is too, anyhow,

He says

when he was small like me verdant as these trees he would stand here, gazing out into his own view contemplating what would be but oh, how the time flew

I ask him, “what has come true?”

He turns to me, tearing away from his view and replies, “only you.”

HER VIEW

My mother can only tell me stories of her childhood view She whispers to me at night about the forest her mother grew on their balcony of the mango tree that she planted that rained ripe fruit when shook the bushes of berries she would pilfer

She shivers in this Chicago cold, where none of her childhood plants grow So I do everything I can

Dyeing her gray hair black Massaging her worn-out back Trying with all my heart To keep her young with me Her view, her stories alive

MY VIEW

Outside my bay windows is a triptych I know by heart It’s my parent’s prized magnolia to the left the robins munching on holly to the right And my favorite swaths of white crabapple blossoms in the middle

There is no Ganges, no balcony forest to be seen They said goodbye to those long ago They left behind their views so I could see petals snowing in spring They gave up their dreams for me

Annie Zhao

Drinking pure water is the death of grit. To be so dependent on something or someone in the name of purity hurts in the end. We fall sick. I draw from lofty, empty places in my head. I write too, as a disciple to someone who won't read my mind. In the school bathroom, I scrub away what's on my face because the faker she looks, the realer she gets.

Vice versa.

I guess I don't mind. Once I formed a -ship as fragile and utilitarian as a fragrant bar of soap, and as it aged, it dried out and broke. Limerence ails my judgment though it cures a cloudy mind, rainy eyes, salt water. I can't grasp the end of all things, And whether I'll learn of it, Who knows? So it goes.