Poetry
1 min
Oxygenated Dream
Ariel Zhang
Oxygenated Dream
when they called america the land of the free
they were talking about your america, not mine.
your america is statue of liberty turned green,
fourth of july fireworks etching grill marks
into the night sky, bucolic little houses
with pink plastic flamingos melting on green
plastic lawns. your america has a boat
parked in front of the garage. my america
is the car trip from the hankook market
back home a week after my dad
is fired. the street lights carve ponds
into the roads and everytime we pass by
we are scared we'll fall in. each car trip holds
their breath, praying on gallons of gasoline
like a rosary. my dad speaks to the silence: freedom
is buying a can of oxygen. it seems absurd
to buy. you never how much it's worth. but it's always,
always worth it. my father says this, but i know
he is also convincing himself that it is true. we pass
by see-through churches with empty parking lots
and crooked apartments sealed together by dreams.
the last sunlight reaches towards the skyline, and perhaps
there is a chance for us tomorrow.
i roll down the windows and i know:
our lungs were made for this air.
We Love Sharing Stories
Select a story