hmart hymn by Emma Chan
Something about your newness
turns me into a tour guide. I used to hate them,
their tucked shirts, the same dry jokes, but for you, I'd be
anything. I’ll show you the seafood section, glass walls brimming
with desperation, floor slick with river silt.
I’ll help you name the fish in those guilt-gilded tanks,
capture their bright blue loneliness, cup the calcium-crusted clams sinking
their jaws into a memory of salt. I’ll tell you
how it was always too late to rescue them
from drowning in their aloneness, surrounded
by faces, bellies bloated with stolen sun.
How all the armor of the lobsters could never protect them
from rot, fear, heartbreak. How at least the bubbles spat
from the tank’s tepid floor were kind enough to bury them.
I’ll bring you the bushels of loose, raw peanuts, tight-lipped
around their fists of sweetness. Peaches swollen
with summer. And all the vegetables
wearing plastic veils with grapes embroidered on them,
regardless of their names.
And the ladies with flickering little fires
cradling meat in paper cups like magic,
the trash cans overflowing with the detritus of desire:
it’s times like these I wish I could forget
this store’s bone deep history so we can learn it over
together. your awe is a mirror, our bodies
and all the aisle names made illegible,
like a streetlight shrouded in midnight’s smoke—places made
unfamiliar, beautiful, because I get to love you in them.
turns me into a tour guide. I used to hate them,
their tucked shirts, the same dry jokes, but for you, I'd be
anything. I’ll show you the seafood section, glass walls brimming
with desperation, floor slick with river silt.
I’ll help you name the fish in those guilt-gilded tanks,
capture their bright blue loneliness, cup the calcium-crusted clams sinking
their jaws into a memory of salt. I’ll tell you
how it was always too late to rescue them
from drowning in their aloneness, surrounded
by faces, bellies bloated with stolen sun.
How all the armor of the lobsters could never protect them
from rot, fear, heartbreak. How at least the bubbles spat
from the tank’s tepid floor were kind enough to bury them.
I’ll bring you the bushels of loose, raw peanuts, tight-lipped
around their fists of sweetness. Peaches swollen
with summer. And all the vegetables
wearing plastic veils with grapes embroidered on them,
regardless of their names.
And the ladies with flickering little fires
cradling meat in paper cups like magic,
the trash cans overflowing with the detritus of desire:
it’s times like these I wish I could forget
this store’s bone deep history so we can learn it over
together. your awe is a mirror, our bodies
and all the aisle names made illegible,
like a streetlight shrouded in midnight’s smoke—places made
unfamiliar, beautiful, because I get to love you in them.
Emma Chan is a writer and rising college freshman from the East Coast. You can typically find them saving cute cat pictures, and playing video games.
David Goodrum (Corvallis, Oregon) has had photography published in various art/literature journals and juried into many art festivals. He hopes to create a visual field that transports you away from daily events and into a place that delights in an intimate view of the world. See additional work at www.davidgoodrum.com.