By Arja Kumar

i crown you an angel in a slum,
another ghost with camper hands
mountain all over, no river relief

you poor boy in downtown chicago
with cobwebs born in the frayed patches
of jeans,
mismatched shoes and
pimple bruised
eggshell mouth cracks,
yolk spilled smile all crooked teeth.

after stacking fruit and
sweeping onion peels
you sit on milk crates in
the freezer with some other employees
that are cigarette comatosed
at breaktime
you tell them the cashier girl
keeps spilling cans in aisle six
just to brush your hand
she is howling for another urban
soul to intertwine with
of course the city is a jungle
and we are all ants running wild
into drops of fresh honey.

Arja Kumar is a human, writer, and nineteen-year-old college student from Illinois. Her work has appeared in literary magazines including KAIROS, Sweet Tree Review, Literary Orphans, Blink-Ink, and Bop Dead City. When she is not writing, she likes to cook, paint, and stargaze.

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