Dead Skin
I want to peel
winter off of me.
Flake by flake.
The dead cells multiplying,
covering my body in white algae.
I want to peel
you off of me
layer by layer,
but you’re still in my head.
In the morning, afternoon,
evening. Evening, always
in the evening
when the cold gets colder
and night gets under.
I am all alone.
I want to scrub
you off of my body
like the dead skin
in the shower but
this winter refuses,
the dead skin comes back,
and so do you.
Nuts
“Your nuts tickle my throat.”
“What?” he asked.
“Your nuts,
they tickle my throat.” His eyes expanded.
He looked uncomfortable.
“The ones from Trader Joe’s.
The trail mix.”
“Oh,” he said with comprehension.
“I’ve had this cough
for three weeks.
Don’t know when
it’s gonna go away.”
“Maybe you should see a doctor.”
“But I don’t want
to. I don’t want
antibiotics.”
His eyes expanded
some more.
His eye sockets were round
like quarters;
the eyes nickels.
“It feels like there’s a fur ball
lodged in my throat.”
“Hum,” he replied.
There used to be a time you reached
for my hand, lacing
your fingers through mine
and kissed my throat
so hard that it hurt
for days and days.
We’d talk
for hours and hours.
And even though I did not choose you,
it seemed like we touched
something near heaven.
Jingjing Tian is currently an MFA student at CCNY after a short career in aerospace engineering. She likes to play with images: from sauerkraut to pine cones and underwear. She is interested in the shaping of identity, the perceptions of identity, as well as the conflict between different cultures. She hopes to discover where home is and what it means to be home.