Juliana Hung
There was never a teacher
x speaking about the feeling of experiencing
x an end in slow motion. A Tesla crashes into
x our Toyota hip¹, leaving a
x dipping deep dent on the right, and nothing feels right.
x If my body unscrews into hearts,
x my beat would be broken because
there was never a movie that
x starred grandparents who take on the wheel, never a
x star for their caretaker’s company. I don’t know
x why I featured myself as part of their exercise plot, oh
x why does rain spill during rush hour? Powering
x through the windshield not wipered screen,
x he couldn’t have seen, but can he please steer?!
x he couldn’t have stopped, but can he please go?!
x I couldn’t even scream waitwaitwait
when there was never a book
x that is complete. My incomplete sentences
x leave their seat in slow motion. Airbags firecrack into clouds,
x whacking my right ear deaf, a door knocking punch to my right ankle,
x I accept paralysis that is temporary. The silence claws away,
x the caretaker claws at her chest and me too, my chest chokes in
x an attempt for something other than this burn smothered air, but
x grandpa jokes. Bad luck, aye?!
x Good luck, though, grandma adds on to say in this
story where the youth aids the elderly.
x I dial my annual call to my father, considering this an emergency, that surely
x his coworkers will let him leave Zoom early while
x I fail to translate to the paramedics about how is the caretaker feeling?
x I don’t even know Cantonese. And how are you feeling?
x I know how to not pay for the hospital bill is to sign here, please tell me why
x father isn’t thrilled to be drenched at the scene.
x You are old enough to handle these things by yourself.
x By yourself, you must handle the car totaled damage. Nobody but
x mother and medicine are your hug, a drug for your chest muscles
x that struggle to breathe, I can’t slow down when leaping from crosswalk to
x streets, instead retreating to dreams. My death grip on the passenger seat spirals when
x sleep is not in control. The beeping and the weeping sweeps
x into twists and turns until
x I am suspended, moonwalking.
Juliana Hung is an Asian American author from San Francisco. She incorporates sonic texture into her poetry, weaving themes of personal experiences and generational expectations with the various strands of perspectives, places, and time. As a third-year student-athlete at Northwestern University, she studies communications, creative writing, and integrated marketing. Beyond academics and athletics, she loves to explore the city and cook nostalgic recipes.
