NIGHT TERRORS AS SAFETY PRECAUTIONS
TINA LE
once I tiptoed for a month once I sewed
shamrocks to the insides of my jackets once
I burned my bed sheets once I poured
a whole container of salt into my purse
so that luck could leak
from the hole in the bottom sometimes
I’m afraid that life after death is bland
which is why I sweat every night:
to prevent oceans from drying up
shamrocks to the insides of my jackets once
I burned my bed sheets once I poured
a whole container of salt into my purse
so that luck could leak
from the hole in the bottom sometimes
I’m afraid that life after death is bland
which is why I sweat every night:
to prevent oceans from drying up
TOWARD
TINA LE
When you start running
your throat will constrict
in any city’s wind.
I promise it won’t hurt
so much if you look
at your toes and nothing else.
Leave behind the battered sandals,
stain your feet with unfamiliar mud.
Pluck wildflower seeds as you go
and scatter them behind you
in the heavy air.
When you stop, both hands empty,
imagine this is how your mother felt
boiling dandelions for dinner, gathering
more blooms into a tin can vase:
a bouquet for her empty apartment.
your throat will constrict
in any city’s wind.
I promise it won’t hurt
so much if you look
at your toes and nothing else.
Leave behind the battered sandals,
stain your feet with unfamiliar mud.
Pluck wildflower seeds as you go
and scatter them behind you
in the heavy air.
When you stop, both hands empty,
imagine this is how your mother felt
boiling dandelions for dinner, gathering
more blooms into a tin can vase:
a bouquet for her empty apartment.
TINA LE is a Vietnamese American landlocked at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, where she is the recipient of the 2017 Vreeland Award for poetry. She is studying secondary English education and is a teaching artist for the Nebraska Writers Collective, working with the Louder Than a Bomb: Great Plains program. Her work has appeared in The Write Launch. She enjoys plants and late-night diner trips.