That winding road carved
into mountainsides,
the long drive through
forests, valleys, climbs.
That waterfall
we always stopped beside,
glinting like glass beads
in slivered sunlight.
It felt like a trek
to what could have been
the world’s very edge.
Static-soft broadcasts,
CDs with worn-out tracks,
and hardly any other
soul to pass.
Destination: Paper Town, USA—
that might as well
have been its name.
It’s a ramshackle place
fragrant with parchment
and not the cozy smell
of novels—
spice and blanched solids—
no.
This was the pulpy fug
of paste and waste
and burning.
Here,
we’d do our shopping.
Walking past thrift racks
and grocery aisles
with one thing on our minds,
with one post-shop calling—
the Chinese buffet.
Yeah, you heard me.
An Asian feast
right there in
Paper Town, USA.
Amidst the smoggy gray,
we’d heap our endless plates.
My brother always
ate the frog legs,
a slimy, sinewy,
twitchy dish.
While I always ate
the dessert cakes,
delicate pastel tastes
of cream, light sponge,
and icing.
On the trek back, I’d nap,
sprawled on the backseat,
watching the stars
come on slowly,
their glow blurred
by our car’s speed,
so it felt like I
was space-traveling
through the cosmos,
not riding down
some country road.
My stomach full
of sweet hues,
and my hair full
of smoke.
pm poetry 