Yong-Yu Huang

Clark Street Beach in April

The week before my cousin’s wedding, I wade
into Lake Michigan, the water cold enough

to banish my thoughts. The wayward ones,
sweetly tense with the first surprises of spring.

Nobody warned me about the weather—
how easy it is to believe in something good,

something approaching. When I was younger,
in a different city, I counted subway stops

to measure distance. How things seemed closer
underground, in the winter, below water.

Now these same tricks I play on myself—
wet grass left unkempt through the cold months. 

Before visiting me, a friend spends a day
swimming in a river. That running water is better suited 

to these stories. Some things require a head,
a mouth. I examine the tide’s wet lap,  

the soaked hem of my jeans.
What to say about facing the future? 

Upon waking, my friend tells me about
the worst day of her life.

Nothing you can do, nothing anyone can do. 

The breeze moving on,
unaware of its own passing.

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Yong-Yu Huang is a student at Northwestern University. Her work is featured in Waxwing, Muzzle and Adroit Journal, among others. She is the recipient of the 2021 Elinor Benedict Poetry Prize and was commended in The Poetry Society's 2024 National Poetry Competition.