dream (IV)

Ivi Hua

the girl across the laundromat is feeding quarters
into the dryer. moons into the slot & her machine
remains empty. a wasteland behind the door. she’s left
her basket over here. & her clothing reeks of sorrow.
turtlenecks drenched & untouched. how many sweaters
are truly hers? memory is memory & memory
is small agony. i wonder how an ache is manufactured.
a tag says 65% wool. 34% polyester. the last 1% pure grief.
these days, i am more feeling than girl. stars in my bloodstream. scabs
on my knees. my heart is glass & i have infinite sparrows,
finite cages. & now the girl is crossing the room, eyes glinting in tears.
in another life, she’d be drowning in pearls. building
a temple of salt & sea. but here, all fluorescent light
& cherry detergent, she folds in sobs. & i know, by sight, that
we’ve both been swept through the flood. i want to tell her
that penance won’t make it the same. it doesn’t matter
how many quarters she pours into the slot. what we want
cannot be sold & cannot be bought. sinking to my knees,
the world lavender in grief, i pray. feathers on my lips.
darling, don’t you understand that this is how it should be?

---

Ivi Hua is an Asian-American writer, dreamer, and poet. A Best of the Net nominee, her work is published or forthcoming in Juven, Polyphony Lit, and the Eunoia Review among others. In the summer of 2022, she attended the Adroit Journal’s Summer Mentorship as a Poetry mentee. You can find her @livia.writes.stories on Instagram.

---