Ying Kit smelled like the inside of his grandmother’s silk jacket, like the dark potions his parents stored in the kitchen cabinet, labeled with roosters or bearded men. He didn’t know until the other boys at school asked him why he smelled like mothballs. On the Internet they looked like eyeballs with their irises erased. He’d carry the boys’ eyes in his pockets like gumballs or good luck charms, rolling them between his fingers. They were extra sweet, and once, when he gorged himself, his mother let him stay home sick.
Lisa Low was born and raised in Maryland. Her poems have recently appeared in Washington Square Review, The Collagist, and Connotation Press: An Online Artifact. She lives in Bloomington, IN, where she is an MFA candidate at Indiana University.