Juheon (Julie) Rhee
The moon that used to follow me in the car
is gone, hidden by the charred clouds. I’ve become an adult already, at fifteen. A body that has never been mine, its hair splits like lightning branches. In the mirror, the blue lips, shriveled in the cold, breaks into a smile, and a plump tongue touches on it briefly, like a predator. It distorts the face, or perhaps only straightens it out. The clock on my shelf bends and trickles down like water. I’ve been told an adult smiles, so there are pins on the face, holding the edge of the lips to the ears. The mouth opens and clamps again and again, until the springs in its plastic gum breaks, and the jaw sinks down and drools over the clothes. The girl stares at herself after the shower, her figure blurred with clouds on the mirror.
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