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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. 

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.
ISSN 2157-8079
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