The summer you learned to bike
by Eva Chen
the summer you learned to bike was the same summer i learned
how fragile a body can be - you, who grew mountains for shoulders,
had skin bruised like mangos from wrestling with hot gritty sand &
it was that same summer where i learned to spin bandages
from tattered dirty wools, & you wore wet cloth hanging
from the branches of your knees all throughout june.
still yet you insisted to soar with your bike & i watched you -
wide eyed, hands gripped to the rubber of the bars,
you sprung into the midsummer air & when your body
collided with the dust, you exploded with laughter so heavy,
the whole forest shook & all i could do
was grip my first-aid box a little tighter
waiting on you to fall.
by the end of july, i became a girl
with hands so fast i could catch anything,
and you, a boy, with the ability
to fly.