On Emerging From Lytle Tunnel by Sarah Park (18, Philippines)

 In July, the pool overflows & the tree loses
its limbs. the garden gathering a glut 
 
of dragonflies & freesias. floodwater staining
the asphalt all black. With the summer light fading, 
 
we chase shooting stars in the last 
quarter of the highway. the sky burning
 
shade of tongues running over teeth. the route 
winding every way south. Highway winds spin me ‘round 

---

in the passenger seat, but I am a marionette
strung by streetlights from home:

​this wind of running off mangles 
me into a refrigerator-wide knot. A straw
 
is bitten and soaking in the styrofoam
melting on the cupholder. my legs are sunburnt and
 
peeling back fresh flesh. I smile in a gradient:
eggshell to asylum white from the boy I 
 
chipped my teeth on. In the flash of dark, we can only
rush to the other end: like your hand on my
 
lower thigh; mine running races in a circle
on the peach bone of my ankle, shadows 
 
convalescencing into us when you’re too
tired to drive, staining our skin the perfect
 
shade of night. Headlight glow swims over reflections
of us on the dash. fingertip tornadoes chasing ripples
 
down the center of your cup. and your eyes watch the road 
black and white: snow on the interstate and tar 
 
licking the other end of your cigarette. you say
the smoking might kill you first, so I equalize this by hanging
 
my head out the window, with an under
the skirt view of the sky,
 
undulating shades of blue: reminding me
we’re actually spinning as we’re speeding
 
in the interspatial & galactic sense, in the
atomic, minute sense, so it makes 
 
sense for the sky to be choking
this silent. for the stop sign
 
to be so red. for you to
smile at me so honestly
 
i forget to look back
at what I’m leaving behind.