The summer you learned to bike

by Eva Chen

the summer you learned to bike was the same summer i learned

how fragile a body can be - you, who grew mountains for shoulders,

had skin bruised like mangos from wrestling with hot gritty sand &

it was that same summer where i learned to spin bandages

from tattered dirty wools, & you wore wet cloth hanging

from the branches of your knees all throughout june.

still yet you insisted to soar with your bike & i watched you -

wide eyed, hands gripped to the rubber of the bars,

you sprung into the midsummer air & when your body

collided with the dust, you exploded with laughter so heavy,

the whole forest shook & all i could do

was grip my first-aid box a little tighter

waiting on you to fall.

by the end of july, i became a girl

with hands so fast i could catch anything,

and you, a boy, with the ability

to fly.