Sophie Yu

Sun Spots

I. 朝阳区: Sunshine District

Heat waves quiver above sidewalks as sweat presses my whiskering baby hairs against the nape of my neck. As we hum to the rhythm of our flip flops slapping the scorching cement, Grandpa tucks my little fist into his own. Then, the flutter of glass noodle curtains and sudden rush of scallion-scented air conditioning signal our arrival at the little grocery store marked the corner of 68th Street. We look up, the sky folded into rows and rows of tattered apartments, broken window frames, and webs of hanging clotheslines.
 

II. American Cheese

Across from my seat, you lean over to peer into the My Little Pony thermos Mama filled with mini pork and cabbage dumplings. As you scrunch your nose, I skewer a dumpling with my plastic spork, pointing to your lunchbox—carrots and ranch. Goldfish. Gushers. A ham and cheese sandwich. A wheel of luke-warm Babybel cheese (wrapped in the bright red wax you always molded into little cubes). In awe, I watch you dip the carrot into the dill-mottled ranch as piping hot soybean oil sears the roof of my mouth. Tomorrow, I will ask Mama to make the same sandwich with the American cheese. As I bite down, I will swallow the unremoved polythene plastic wrapping.
 

III. Nightlights

At ten in the evening, I fling the covers off my twin-size bed and prop my legs up against the wall. When I whisper, my sister doesn’t respond—but the talk show host does, his voice blaring through the crack in our bedroom door. A sliver of kitchen light threads a backstitch through our beige carpet, and I imagine sheep in silky pink pointe shoes dancing circled shadows into the light. Imagine the silver stitching on my own cotton tutu, laced with tulle and sheer muslin for the weekend's dance recital, glittering across the maplewood planks. As one sheep is mid-pirouette, the host’s voice stops, replaced by the cling-clack of wooden chopsticks against ceramic. Then, tap water rushes. The light flickers off, and my feet fall back against the mattress. I dream of clowns and guns, whetted knives. Baba slips through the apartment door silently like a broken promise, just before sunrise.
 

IV. 于若涵: My Name

Although I didn’t know it yet, the little grocery store doubles as Gossip Central, old grannies giggling as they scrub fresh batches of taro root. Grandpa greets the women, grinning and nodding as he taps his ring knuckle against a baby watermelon, searching for the sound of hollowness. The sound of readiness. The ladies glance over at me, whispering, before asking him, “Who is this young lady?” Suddenly, my tongue knots. I stiffen. I forget my name. My name rhymes with “fish meatball,” gets lost in translation. My name lies crookedly on a page, dismembered. My name swirls off my mother’s tongue like a miracle. Like a wave licking through a periwinkle, just trying to reach the certainty of shore.
 

My name, three characters I never learned to write.

于若涵: My Chinese name, meaning ‘trickling water.’

Sophie Yu (she/her) is a student poet at Phillips Exeter Academy and a New Hampshire Teen Poet Laureate. She is a published author of two poetry collections, as well as the co-founder of Nova Literary Magazine. She is also an alumna of the Sewanee Young Writers Conference and the Juniper Institute for Young Writers Program. Her work has been featured in Spotlong and Eunoia Reviews, and recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, both regionally and nationally. This past summer, she served as an intern for the Academy of American Poets. If you can’t find her in a warmly lit cafe, she is most likely scrapbooking in her room with jazz blasting and a hot cup of jasmine tea brewing on her nightstand.

Literary Magazine: https://www.novalit.org/