Thick Skin
by Alison Zheng
Tonight, we leave for California.
I carry her purse as we stand in
the queue. It’s the color of grapefruit
and heavy too. She takes it back when
we find our seats unzipping the top
revealing a grapefruit.
She insists I connect her phone
to Wi-Fi before asking if I’m hungry.
I’m not so she rips it apart with her
hands. She used to cut apples into cubes
before bringing them to my bedroom
so that she could tell me not to study too hard.
She falls asleep and I peel citrus skin
from her clenched hands. Writer’s callus aside
I am unmarred. Hers are calloused. Hers are
machine. In two days, she’ll be back
at the factory so tonight
I parent. Tonight, she dreams.
I carry her purse as we stand in
the queue. It’s the color of grapefruit
and heavy too. She takes it back when
we find our seats unzipping the top
revealing a grapefruit.
She insists I connect her phone
to Wi-Fi before asking if I’m hungry.
I’m not so she rips it apart with her
hands. She used to cut apples into cubes
before bringing them to my bedroom
so that she could tell me not to study too hard.
She falls asleep and I peel citrus skin
from her clenched hands. Writer’s callus aside
I am unmarred. Hers are calloused. Hers are
machine. In two days, she’ll be back
at the factory so tonight
I parent. Tonight, she dreams.
Alison Zheng's work has been published in Hobart After Dark, Honey Literary, Pidgeonholes, The Offing, and more. She's pursuing her MFA in Poetry at University of San Francisco as a Lawrence Ferlinghetti Fellow.