on our first date i’ll take you to
that field of carnations in wisborg
and tilt your fanged head
towards the unpolluted constellations:
look, there’s cygnus. and draco. and cassiopeia—
we’ll turn the color of elephants in the starlight
and earth will forget to turn
the same way it does during daylight savings.
i’ll carve you a vase the shape of a pomegranate
and fill it with dust from a blood moon;
you’ll talk about planets in retrograde,
neither of us knowing what that means.
we’ll fear the day much more than
garlic or silver or wood, all things that
maim but don’t kill.
every time you leave i’ll put away my telescope,
gaze at the five-pointed indent of your body
and wait for the sun to set again.
Jason Zhang is a Northeast Philadelphian whose hobbies include thrifting, open water swimming, and watching horror movies. His writing has been recognized by organizations including the Scholastic Awards, the New York Times, and Adroit. He is currently in his first year at Stanford University, where he plans to study Political Communication—and keep writing, of course.