when I think love
when I think love, I think
crosswalks. crosswalks at an intersection.
intersections folding into home.
bakeries. picking up sourdough
at a le pain asser. crosswalks folding crisply
like the crackling of sourdough starter.
I think rich. downed & drunk on awkward street signs.
korean spelled to sound like fancy french.
out-of-business oscar motels. napkins bunched
under rolled-up pasta. poor imitations of gelato.
restaurants dedicated entirely to seaweed soup. restaurants
that live. restaurants that forgot to live. overhyped soba noodles & udon.
people. visiting from other intersections.
people standing in line for cheap coffee. people
overcompensating richness with cold yogurt blends.
mothers with their children. children with
convenience store rice triangles & unauthentic
yellow banana milk. mothers with half-assed
plastic cup white wine. crossing
a crosswalk. at night: unlived underground
karaoke bars. sweaty men slapping backs
& smoking through tobacco teeth.
I think love in day & night. intersections
licking corners with stray cat piss stains. a dog
barking somewhere a streetlamp lives.
women enjoying unadulterated drunkenness.
businessmen that kill neon streetlights. children
in bed. adults slipping into each breath.
the people of montmartre;
in this moment they are everywhere
all at once. we wander like strays. I am born
as a stranger in a new
intersection
everyday.
Flower Language
Gone, I whisper and walk towards
the bed of belladonnas, close enough
to listen to their gentle
inquisitive conversation. I listen
to their arms fan widely above
and over their mystery fruits:
magnolias, singing. They indulge
in noiseless chatter while I swaddle
in dahlias overwinter crisp
newspaper. The children have made a home
out of miniature sunflowers— only
ones that could afford real blooms
instead of the silk imitations
sold in the supermarket. The wind praises
the gray foliage and the knee-length weeds.
Lavender: the height of a spine
and the way it tickles the sky on a whim
grounds the stalks into more purple
than they are. The pine with hipbone steps
turns enwrapped in a fragrance— breathe.
The garden is nothing concrete
but a moment all at once.
I bury my nails in clay ripples
thoroughly spoiling myself
with Earth.
Praise
Praise the stories.
Praise the stories I read
and tell, subtly.
Praise the night.
Praise the night beneath
little black shell bodies.
Praise the waters
under the caps of my shoulders,
under consciousness.
Wrap real rain
around my finger, let it
sluice down the sidewalk.
Praise the parting
of eyes and the turning
of the sea, they are altering
my world.
Yoon Park is a dynamic high school student enrolled at Seoul Academy in Seoul, South Korea. She channels her creative energy into writing and visual art and finds joy in expressing herself through these mediums. Additionally, she has a passion for music and spends her spare time playing the piano or the guitar. Her dedication to her craft has earned her recognition and admission into the prestigious Iowa Young Writers Studio, the Adroit Journal Summer Mentorship Program, and Kenyon Review Young Writers Workshop.