Summer’s End

Beck Chi, Canada

On the train, we say nothing to each other

The windows are cranked down and the wind whistles into my ear and out of yours

I watch the countryside, the grass, the trees, the fences with nothing behind them

I wonder how long it takes to plant a seedling. I wonder how long it takes for the soil to stop prodding at

it and open itself up to the shell of something new. I wonder if that’s something I could learn.

A train attendant asks you to choose between dried apricots and a small bag of peanuts

You choose the peanuts. Rip it open. Brown flakes my jeans.

The peanuts crunch in your mouth, stale. You take a swig of water and swish it between your teeth.

Feeling clean is not the same as being clean. Sometimes the act of cleansing cleanses you. Back in Idaho,

we washed our hands often with river water even when there was nothing there.

Light lances straight through you. It turns you transparent, like when you press a flashlight to the cloth of

a tent and it comes out the other end, only muted. I don’t think you notice. I don’t think we’ll ever go

camping again.

The grass melts into stagnant dirt roads. You keep wiping at your eyes.

I reach out to touch your shoulder but realize I’m only looking at my hands.

Somewhere, out in the fields, a dog barks. I taste damp wood and green apples in my mouth. You washed

your hair with too much shampoo. You told me the knots would stay.

Two blinks and the landscape outside my window changes. Cows and orchards to paved roads.

I imagine shoes on the last rung of a ladder and my eyes ache.

The sun dies on the sleeve of my t-shirt. You ask me if you can sleep. You put your head on my shoulder.

I think of how much the scapula resembles a flipped human heart. I think of how many things we say to

each other when our eyes are closed.

Outside, the hills roll onwards and the trees fill their branches with leaves to feel closer to each other.

They hold their breath, drink from the same well, and pray that autumn does not find them.

The air is not yet bitter, but already I wish for summer. The train has not yet reached its station,

but already I am buying your ticket home.

Beck Chi is a highschool student who grew up in Beijing, China. She likes sweets, indie rock bands, and poems that are open to interpretation. She dreams of studying abroad in Europe one day.