Cadence Chung (she/they)
I’ve got one of those colds that sneaks in
like a text to an ex-lover, and my lungs
are full of salt. On Marion Street, there’s
an old building I’d never noticed, faux
columns painted blue and white.
There is no religion greater than the Truth,
it proclaims. I remember our church play —
Pontius Pilate asking what Truth was —
but he was played by someone’s old uncle
and really it had no philosophical weight.
I used to not like to write about the truth,
preferring insipid fantasy where people denounced
small talk and boys had auburn hair
and girls were strawberry-scented accessories.
Why bother about the real world? I asked.
But now my past escapism has turned
into an incessant thirst for the click of brogue
on pavement, the taste of girl
in mouth, decidedly non-strawberry. I am
a changed woman. I drink Metro Top 50 Wines
and I’m friends with people who write poetry.
My father, on many a night, drank vodka
mixed with cordial. I remember
the red-shimmer powder-enticement of it.
Last weekend I bought a twenty-dollar cocktail.
He’s never felt so far.