Monsoon season for you looks like bits of paper floating in water,
sog and sash when the chew of a wad of wet paper makes my jaw
harden and my teeth cringe. Monsoon seasons tells me your direct
revelations
are nothing short of strange meetings between you and that little
creature living in your body, as you pluck stems from cherry pits and
throw them to the Earth. You know they will not grow. Monsoon
season tells me just how narrow your hips are, if a baby can be born from
nothing. Monsoon season reminds me of the day I arrived supine,
under the guidance of a small god. Monsoon season tears paper holes
in my chest and knots the silly shreds into bows to put in your hair. Monsoon
season shows me you are fragile, capable of being blown away, tenderness
in your veins. The monsoons share these things and yet you stand, Earthborn
and bubbling at the surface, early morning, cutting up newspapers at the
table like it’s no one’s business. Still, if the monsoons don’t tell me where you are
I promise to find you in the weeping winds when rain meets ocean
far beyond you and I.
Melinda Wang is a fifteen-year-old high schooler living in Santa Monica, California. She has been recognized by the National Council of Teachers of English (NCTE) and Polyphony Lit for her fiction and creative nonfiction. Her favorite school subject isEnglish and she enjoys writing about the natural world and her lived experiences, often through fiction and poetry. In her free time, she enjoys learning how to empower others through words, bird watching, and learning about whales.
"India - Matheran - 18 - Monsoon rains" by mckaysavage is licensed under CC BY 2.0.
