Day Six
Remember that our hands do not belong to our wrists
nor our wrists to our bodies nor we
to each other. Black sheep take themselves into the fold
unknowingly and never run again. Perhaps blinded, perhaps
at night we mistake white wool for open air.
We do not choose ourselves or each other.
Remember that all our joints pull in different directions
and wish to be separated and one day
the sheep outlive the shepherd.
We roam free over hill and gully, forgetting
safety, company, how we fit against the other.
Still our names stay tacked to our ears.
Remember that God makes Adam with His own hands
and the red earth sticks to Him like second skin.
There is a moment, I think
when Creator and creation lock fingers and
never forget it.
This is the Summer
This is the summer we prayed for
mercy, strung ourselves out like laundry
sighing to the sun. This is the
summer our knuckles learned the grooves
of a washboard better than they
knew each other. We worked this tin machine over and
over and over again, five times,
six times,
day into night,
blisters pouring back into horizon.
This is the summer we prayed for
blood to wash us clean:
starched white cotton,
sparkling water droplets,
chlorine bleach.
This is the summer we prayed for
a new body, prayed to
turn our skin in on itself
and start again.
Serena Deng is currently a senior in high school. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing awards, the NCTE, and Temple University, and can be found in Invisible City and Ricochet Review. She lives in NYC, where she drinks water straight from the tap.