REFUGEES

Emma Hwang ’24

Refugees, all of us.

Hunched on the floor with their treasures reviving from the dead from the magic in the outlets, Cured by some invaluable sorcery that turns tame to feral and back again.

Packed in so tightly like the sardines rotting in their warming refrigerators, Infiltrating personal space faster than they can connect with their addictions.

Countless graves of dead outlets, their headstones marked with masking tape announcing their decease Myriads of pitiful but blistering words falling from tongues: “I’m using that charger”

And way too many Refugees

Like rats clawing at each other’s eyes for food, Hooked to electricity like dictators drunk on power. Doomed without connection, Not to others

But to a pipeline to fill the holes in their hearts, To seal their pain with media, work, memes, productivity.

Rats, all of us, electricity-starved zombies

All of us, refugees.

Tomorrow

Sophia Yao ’24

the air is soft as silk this morning when i breathe in, i can feel it slip down my throat, into my toes, the open sky drips down around me, warm and sluggish like wistful songs, sweet berries, purring cats on the porch, their little bellies rising and falling as you sip bitter coffee, breathe in, breathe out to the tick tick tick of the dusty clock on the mantel, next to the rusty glass flowers, and suddenly you have lived all your life, your hair is thin and your bones are weak and the sky is colder now, time has run out and all that is left is the quiet tick tick tick, the cats, old and tired, at your feet.

but i turn and it is warm, the sunshine hits me, bright and blinding the flowers are still fresh, petals stretching outwards, and i am still young enough to relish in the goodness of the world, i have the time to fall in love, to give out thank you notes, to collect flowers, to move to Boston, to see my family, to watch the daylight fade over the hills, night after night after night, but for now, i will rest.

i will not remember this day, or this day, or this day but i will remember the midsummer air, the blurry memories, fading into each other as time passes us by and by and by.