Tomorrow, a Garden

in midwestern heat,


the sky is not so much a ceiling as it is a ribcage:

thin bones holding up a trembling azure.


i knot white string into a makeshift trellis


and plant my bad choices like seeds:


uneven beds, scalloped with stubborn weeds,

watch sin darken under my nails like


soil i keep carrying into the house.

i imagine this plot of land ending in sea,


water catching the late sun like molten copper,


but we are in landlocked Iowa and


corn sweat swells the air,

the heat of bodies hurling.


we cawed at lovebirds, trimmed the grass til it bled green,

watched a jar of overripe tomatoes burst over themselves.


i laughed through every reality show and still wanted more.

in my mother’s home, the lightbulb hums, then dies.

plastic flowers yellow in vases,


towels topple like hills,

drying themselves out in sun.

pomegranate juice stains my white palms,

pretending its crimson belongs to me.

i watch evening tuck itself into curtains

and imagine:


tomorrow,


a garden.

Vanessa Chen is a high school senior from Vancouver, Canada. Her work has been recognized by The New York Times, the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers, and the League of Canadian Poets, among others. An alumna of the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio, Vanessa also edits for Polyphony Lit—and she’s a devoted cheese lover.