Waning Pang by Taeyeon Han (17, California)*

Seawater clings to my soles as the voice of life
ripples through the trickling rivulet that leads to the sea --

the sound of the suburban coast reverberates in my cochlea.
A narrow fellow slithers against my ankles, winding

---

​its green-flooded leaves around my foot.
Pacific eelgrass are infatuated with warmth;

they were raised with the motherly touch of sunlight.
That summer, I learned to call ochre sea stars my friends --
I even promised one that I would embroider it
in white velvet against the parchment sky.

The coastal rain felt more like a baptism,
sweeping my vexations under the heart, and

leaving me with a blessedly numb, sort of relief
that mirrors only the tail-like ebbing motion of the sea.

The water trail leaves behind a scent of saccharine and
ignites a mutiny in my aspirational soul.

The billowing periwinkle quilt rediscovered
the horse-beat rhythm that once echoed in my city.

Pampas grass sway to a sprightly dance,
and I strengthen in the gut.

I will finish my eulogy another day.