November means sputtering rain that has
no energy left for desperation,

myths woven into cartilage sidewalks like hemp.
A rush of street veins, the trains spitting up soggy girls,

stale microwaved coffee ebbing away at
your tongue as the guitar twangs of an indie rock band

fills afternoon silence with salt,
something that loses its taste after a moment or two.

You’ve been scribbling down cluttered
thoughts into notebooks fragile and

ridged like leaves drowned
in muddy storm puddles.

November means bruised clouds always on the edge
of breaking, sleet peppered with

regret and slivers of the moon.
One day when you’re not thirteen anymore,

you know you’re getting out of this city.





Rona WangRona Wang is a sixteen-year-old from Portland, OR. She has been recognized nationally by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and has been published in The Best Teen Writing of 2014. She attended the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio in 2014. Currently she is a poetry reader at The Blueshift Journal. When not writing, she is prodding at a math problem or exploring one of the many downtown restaurants.

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