What She Meant

My mother once said 

You only grow up 

when your heart grows

I cried,       not 

Understanding 

I cried,       not 

When your heart grows

You only grow up

My mother once said

Transient Keychains on Backpacks 

We chained it to our backpack 

Dirty scratches on one side 

To times we split the last slice of pizza 

To times we crouched, holding our stomachs 

Metal charms clipped onto split rings

Our names engraved on its tag 

To times we leaned heads on buses 

To times we finished each other’s sentences

The cool touch of the metal 

Its warm reminders of our memories  

To times we first met 

To times we waved goodbye in tears

Cicada, Fish, and Apples

I remember pieces of my past memories

The crying cicada, the fish, the apples 

But here in the city,

Cicadas are stepped on 

Fish are inside glass bowls 

And apples are not so ripe

Ah-Young Dana Park is a student attending a high school in Boston, Massachusetts. Her poetry often explores memory, interiority, and fleeting moments. Beyond her writing pursuits, Dana enjoys singing, painting, and exploring other artistic fields.