Summer
in the halls. The courage of summer
in the voices of students. Summer under the arms—
darkened by sweat. Summer in the way they carry
their half-empty backpacks high on their shoulders.
It’s hot—the kind of California hot that’s in the air,
that only deepens and settles in the shade. Summer
shut in the boy’s bedroom. Windows shuttered,
as if that will keep out the heat. Summer in the yellow
light, a sickly sun. Fan beating flickering bars
across the ceiling like doubts. Summer in his mouth
like an apple. Summer dripping down his back.
Back striped with stretch marks, bands in metamorphic
rock. Slick with summer rain. Summer parting
for the bullet. Summer a wound closing around the body.
Summer a question opening before the grads. How much
faster does sound travel in the hot summer air?
Ghost
Palm turned up
to the narrow night sky
like a blank page.
A blank page
washed blue by the light
of a thousand flashing
billboards. Ads
chasing each other
across the LED screens
like things on your desk.
Ads for new smartphones,
energy drinks, life
insurance policies.
Faces of strangers
flashing by, pages turning
too fast to read.
A word in a blue-lit
straight smile,
a word in a hand squeeze.
Turn your shoulders
to prevent a deadly collision.
Sliver of blue sky
between buildings.
A child looking over
her shoulder
at the man, waving—
excuse her,
she hasn’t yet been taught
to look through
a person. His palm
turned up to the sky
a blank page
asking her to write.
Radian Hong is a biracial writer from California. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Coachella Review, Necessary Fiction, San Pedro River Review, and other journals and has been nationally recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards.