swifts  &  s l o w s · a quarterly of crisscrossings

a city in a reflection
Molly Zhu

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The Road with no Exit

The road with no exit has no end. It offers no means of escape
back to the regular world. Once, I rode my bike up to the lip of this road
and peered inside. It looked like a city in a reflection:
right-angled, competent, slate. It looked like a briefcase
the color of a Hearse and in the dark,
I saw the cement absorbing heat from the pale night.
The road with no exit is no sight for sore eyes,
ivy and weeds scurry down its arthritic spine –
abandoned car tires, molted skin, and old lovers are discarded there.
What is most chilling is the fact that the road has no exit,
no way out, no way of knowing you could again be free.
Although – once in a blue moon, it is said a meteor crashes
into the belly of the road and cracks it apart like the shell of a pistachio.
Heaven and hell each claim a half. What’s left in the yolk
of the broken street is just a mirror you look into.

I Take

I take my tea from the barista, and at the counter, she takes
her time to coax the leaves until they bloom underwater,
I take my tea from another country with a generous amount
of domestic milk and local honey– it is a gorgeous morning, isn’t it?
right on the brink of ecstasy, I take myself out for a walk, and
I don’t take myself too too seriously, instead I love to take
in the clouds, after all, they are taking in the tops of our heads
and from this world, I take most things that I want, I try to take
everything that is offered to me, and I give some back,
though not a whole lot…on the street, a man my age tries to take
my wallet but he does not succeed, it becomes a failed attempt
at petty theft and so I take back the money I own
I take back the money he needs, then I take myself window-shopping,
I take my pick of which material items to covet, and occasionally
I try to rectify this imbalance– this giving, this taking,
though admittedly I am no expert…
But I do take stock of the question at her asylum hearing years ago,
when the other attorneys were out of earshot, she asks
what it took for me to become an American and I take it
she may not think of me as a true American, I take
after my ancestors, our skin our eyes and
she sees this and understands that it takes a plane,
a dream, a goodbye, a phone card, a hope for me
to take my Americanism the way I take a sip
of morning tea– without even thinking–
at the time she was thirteen years old…
remember what it was like to be thirteen?
Simply taking in the world, hour by hour
never once considering if anything was being taken
for granted.

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Molly Zhu is an Asian American poet and attorney. Her work centers around Chinese culture, her family and the things that make her cry. She has been published in Hobart Pulp, the Ghost City Press, and Bodega Magazine, among others. In 2021 and 2022, she was nominated for Pushcart prizes. She currently serves as assistant poetry editor for Passengers Journal. She is the winner of the inaugural Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Prize hosted by the Cordella Press and her first chapbook, Asian American Translations, is now available on Cordella Press. www.MollyZhu.com  Instagram @mlz316