Q-TIPS

triptych for vaseline

i.

vaseline on shiny skin. shiny pink lips. pucker up pucker up.

satin and sealed and sheeny. salamander slick, smooth enough

to lose. dead tissue in a wound. score and slip the gauzy scar

tissue closed. cauterize. tenderize. peel back the skin until it is

weeping vaseline again, pink and shiny like newborn flesh.

ii.

dip fingers in vaseline. dig in. wax drips from our nails. blow

gently because we are wounded and our wicks are lit. blow

gently because we are walking pus. blow gently because our

skin is crackling like scales and it’s a canvas, really, for candle

light and oil and skin jelly. blow away the cocoon. gently, please.

iii.

drown in vaseline tubs. sweet cornsilk gel, the color of maize.

swallow swallow swallow. boiling baths and searing bubbles.

body prunes because we are not meant to melt. so we swelter

and steam instead until our fingerprints are sticky butter yellow.

breath sizzles away until the tub is airless. airtight. skintight.

q-tips

teal, stapler blue, and tangerine orange dust

the cotton like snow falling on pines.

white swabbed sticks roll against each other,

casting quiet shadows on american holly wood.

little bird, how do you survive in

this snowed world? powdered with earthy brown,

the red of flushed cheeks, blue-tinged ice.

how do we survive? q-tips dipped in

pastels, muted and mute. pigment, chalk, gum.

pure color diluted into snow and cotton.

lawn mower (the great outdoors)

it is the late 19th century. your breath is tinged sweet

and smokeless. in your hand is a creased invitation to

watch the first steam-powered lawn mower. the ink

on the paper tastes like dried flowers and wet leaves.

sunlight paints the stalks of grass yellow and lime,

fiddling with the branches. the great outdoors. you

inhale rich, upturned soil and slices of grass. birds

wail and the lawn mower wails too, loud as a newborn.

the mechanisms of the thing rattle. like automated

lungs. your ribs hurt. the beast rolls over the grass,

each press leaving a path of cut grass behind it. it’s

close enough that like a witness, the gory dirt stains you.

a smattering of applause follows. you look down and

realize your hands are clapping too, dyed with ink. they

waver in the heat-hazy light, dye melting into your

skin. you breathe in the inky air. it tastes like smoke.

it is the late 19th century, and the first steam-powered

lawn mower has been unveiled. now, veiled, you turn

away from the torn up ground and wash away the brown

under your nails. bathe in the citrusy grass. smile hello.

Haeun (Regina) Kim is a student writer from Seoul, South Korea. An alumna of the Adroit Journal Summer Mentorship, the Sewanee Young Writers' Conference, and the Sunhouse Summer Writing Mentorship, she has been recognized by Bennington College, the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers, River of Words, and more. Her writing has been published or is forthcoming in Rust and Moth, Stone Soup, and The Galway Review, among others. An editor at Polyphony Lit, she serves as the founder of MISO-JIEUM. When not writing, she can be found painting in an art studio or struggling through amateur ballet.