Juliana Hung
Distraction. Thoughts wander from habit.
I roam, unwire from work.
The specks of plush trees settle into damp leaves
In my neighborhood that’s lined in sidewalk. I imagine
Asphalt as the track that coats these hills, where
I ride the tide across the street, and tip tap toe
On cobbled steps, oh down
Oh down I go. But I pop this thought to enter
A new bubble, to the door that sings to bells.
In my neighborhood cafe, two people stay:
The balding head peers from the counter, an old man
Who squints through poor vision. And angel hair sways
With the old woman, and ring, the cash box listens.
Emerald booths will sit down, oh
Pillars, stand up, and up I will walk,
To the chair in that far away corner. My tum grumbles loud
For glass displays of sweet clouds! I sink in the cushion, de
Tangle from work, and the couple, they work to remember
My name my order my mushy mood swings —
Thank you Mom, who garnishes love in her servings.
Cheers to Dad, who steadies to the current of tea.
I munch the tall shapes, I bite the sponge cakes,
And sip soaked leaves, hot water. Even with
No sign out the door, no line out the door,
Word of mouth boxes their leftovers. Chew
On the news, how the cafe doesn’t sleep, how it’s opened
As the neighborhood starbursts to blanket streets.
Though Mom and Dad tick later in age, their cafe breathes
For locals to love, for me to come home. As my parents remember
Our face and our name and our order, we remember
Them in their aprons, worn from drink inks and
Sauce smears. But their
Stains, now scream in the darkness.
I drown, burn out from work. I avoid the cafe, where
The breadth of plush trees has masked the pale leaves,
Just walk past their coffins. Just pretend not to grieve.
Born and raised in San Francisco, Juliana Hung is a current sophomore at Northwestern University who centers her poetry around themes of wonder and empathy. When she isn’t writing, she is a student-athlete who trains on the Division 1 Women’s Fencing Team. She also loves to cook with family and friends, draw with graphite and charcoal, and read fiction novels.
