— Amanda Galvan Huynh

there’s a small town
              on purpose
or by accident?

No one remembers. Maybe
                            there’s an empty
shoulders speckled with cotton.

Maybe there’s a tattered house
              with a rusty metal gate,
a sinking floor
              with dusty pictures.

              Maybe the room is too dark
or the lamp by his bed too weak.
              Was it on the nightstand? Or
was it the sun from outside?

Maybe she isn’t
                            allowed in
              there. A curtain to keep
her out—or was it a door?

she thinks
              he’s sleeping, still
breathing as he lies there.

A small hand inside his
              migrant palm, rough—no,
my hand resting inside
                            his soft palm.

Read more from Issue No. 15 or share on Facebook and Twitter.