SUMMER Poem: Amen, by Ariel Zhang

we huddle around the lamplight
knees kissing the linoleum floors.
our bodies saved summer
’s heat. we rub our palms together
to resurrect the magic of the sun, falling
back into our shapeless, galloping shadows.
you ask me to tell a bedtime story
but i insist we say a prayer first.
your eyes are confused. you don’t understand
why we’re praying if we’re not religious.
i tell you that you don’t need to believe
in god to pray. you ask me why.
and i say that’s just the way we are,
doing and undoing. such conversations
seem to go nowhere. they seem to not
exist at all. a distant station exhales
from the radio, turned halfway on. i don’t
know when you started to eat your own
skin at night, to blister your lips to sand
and tuck them in the seabed of your
stomach. i thought i would stay with you,
at least for tonight because tomorrow’s
the day you’re dying. you don’t
seem to know that and i don’t
tell you, that this prayer is for you.
i don’t know what your name means
but the second syllable sounds like “beauty”
in my home tongue. under the lamplight,
your skin is liquid gold.

Author: poetryfest

Submit your Poetry to the Festival. Three Options: 1) To post. 2) To have performed by an actor 3) To be made into a film. View all posts by poetryfest