And There Are No Friends At Dusk

My mother taught me to celebrate the

Hungry Ghost Festival. Every odd 

summer’s night, she ensured my ancestors are well-fed. 

Incense, one-dollar bills and grudges

go up in smoke. I was just a child then, but now

I know better than to make papier-mâché lotus 

flowers of forgiveness to the generations that weaved 

           quiet hurt     &           caresses without intent

into my mother’s cardigan I inherited.

I walk the road to my apartment alone.

Already the shadows are displeased, their

craning shadow-fingers brushing my neck,

unsatiated with grains of my ignorance.

They sharpen, like wooden splinters, all over

and inside and around my body. 

I struggle to carry on. The ghosts 

stretch my skin on my face, and maybe they

see me, a middle-aged unbelieving monster.

My ancestors hiss, Look at yourself. I wish I could,

but the cracked window of the storefront betrays

me: flesh and blood and skull and 

my grandmother, white hair and all.

Sammie Yen is an interdisciplinary storyteller, a crossword-lover, and a McSweeney’s Internet Tendency enthusiast. Pursuing a B.A. in Narrative Studies, she loves all media of creativity and finds inspiration in the little things. In her free time, Sammie re-watches 90s rom-coms, shops at Trader Joe’s, and streams “Getaway Car” on repeat. You can follow Sammie on Instagram here.