Aphelion
BY MACKENZIE DUAN
This day last year, we smoked pot on the pier. Filled the dark with more dark.
These days, I hate San Francisco. Old confetti. Fog as pale & filthy as condoms. The glittering
sidewalk on Valencia where friends & their boyfriends & girlfriends scratch initials in hearts.
My heart either hypercaffeinated or breaking.
These days, I have the same dreams: a crashing sky. The tunnel bliss passes through.
How the softest kill happened.
Late spring. Snails fucking. Soft, wet muscles crowding the sidewalks, each one squirming into
the other’s exoskeleton. Thought of Exit to Eden: No matter what your sexual preference, true
love is always the ultimate fantasy.
According to a friend, true love is a false idol
but death is, like, super romantic.
According to the CDC, teen girls report record levels of sadness.
Rain again. Snail shells washed over in gesso.
These days, I love my mother late at night
& only feel somewhat guilty.
Ophelia: Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be.
Full disclosure: every time the car passes a bright field, I want to love it.
Every time I see my mother sleeping on the couch yellowed by pollen & dust, I promise to
accept what’s passed.
Imagine true love with no one to feel it. Here are snails, to feel it.
Here is a late kiss.
Wind chimes in the hills leaking slow desert light. All the horses sway their strong legs.
Can’t imagine living past seventeen
& then I am.
Woke up. Frolicked in the morning
after rain.
