By: Jennifer Choi
JANUARY 2025 ISSUE
POETRY
Editor: Trevor Cunnington

The back of the universe glows faintly, the forecast says cloudy.
Light spills through the gaps in the clouds,
& within it, there must be whispers from galaxies billions of light-years away.
Like a trace of cream left on my lips, the clouds scatter,
& the forecast is a lie. Today,
I’ll buy a nail clipper for one dollar.
From the moment I was born, my nails were strong.
Like everyone’s, but more precisely,
they were the outer layer of me.
Since I was young, all I learned was how to cut them,
never imagining I’d water them, or sing to them softly
like my mother cared for the flowers.
It felt as though I had to choose
between being the troublemaker
or the perfect child,
but I was a model only in not fitting into either.
& so, according to the nails,
I was nothing but their outside.
Today, the back of the universe continues to glow.
You coat your nails with polish, while I clip mine.
We throw away what’s needed for hygiene, & keep what we desire,
but the thick growth on our fingers remains indifferent to either side.
I only think of the nails tossed into the tissue, the weather, & myself.
The discarded nails always smile faintly.
JENNIFER CHOI
For more information:
House of Grief
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