saltwater cherry cola
Sunny Jeong-Eimer
1
on hot days like this, we, stock, pile into the backseat of the prius and let the faux leather scald stick slick to the insides of our knees. while dad drives us to 7-11 for big gulps. they’re cheap and cold like him. they’re plastic and sweet like summer.
the first sip is cherry cola. like cough syrup but carbonated. it’s a stinging euphoria. i drink and drink until swollen cherries burst and fourth of july blood spatter down my jaw and into my lap. it’s laced with
saltwater second. because when mom crossed the pacific, that liminal body of water merged with hers. limb by limb, flooded and possessed, stripped to the bone like cold turkey left to dry in the sun. harvest came and so too the crude marital procession. veil on the crown of her sun torn head, she turned juice concentration. another canned popped cherry coked up and cola’d.
the bride cured her flesh by sprinkling salt in the cut. it didn’t work — god leaves no aloe in the gallows for unaccompanied women on foreign desecrated lands
2
coffee is a dehydrator.
gasoline sheen liquid traitor. fallen fresh off the bone; the boat i rocked too hard (it rocked into me first), i take
involuntary gulps of saltwater
every drop
ties and unties / tithes and untithes
mother’s forked tongues.
sand displaced from shore to honda odyssey floorboards. swept into the rug & lunch was mayo globs. melted into baloney and the conquest for wonder bread. mom’s wonder woman, a real wonder breadwinner, head of this house of cards, this bungalow, this kitchen counter counting every new day spent forgetting the shore, picking the sand out of our fingernails, the pet goldfish dead & flushed down the toilet bowl back to sea.
see, the breakfast of champions is a capsule of bloodthinner. you’ll know it’s done its job when his eyes run milky white & frosted flake away & his limbs glaze over by the dozen. twinkie twinkie, little (you could be a) STAR
on hot days like this, we, stock, pile into the backseat of the prius and let the faux leather scald stick slick to the insides of our knees. while dad drives us to 7-11 for big gulps. they’re cheap and cold like him. they’re plastic and sweet like summer.
the first sip is cherry cola. like cough syrup but carbonated. it’s a stinging euphoria. i drink and drink until swollen cherries burst and fourth of july blood spatter down my jaw and into my lap. it’s laced with
saltwater second. because when mom crossed the pacific, that liminal body of water merged with hers. limb by limb, flooded and possessed, stripped to the bone like cold turkey left to dry in the sun. harvest came and so too the crude marital procession. veil on the crown of her sun torn head, she turned juice concentration. another canned popped cherry coked up and cola’d.
the bride cured her flesh by sprinkling salt in the cut. it didn’t work — god leaves no aloe in the gallows for unaccompanied women on foreign desecrated lands
2
coffee is a dehydrator.
gasoline sheen liquid traitor. fallen fresh off the bone; the boat i rocked too hard (it rocked into me first), i take
involuntary gulps of saltwater
every drop
ties and unties / tithes and untithes
mother’s forked tongues.
sand displaced from shore to honda odyssey floorboards. swept into the rug & lunch was mayo globs. melted into baloney and the conquest for wonder bread. mom’s wonder woman, a real wonder breadwinner, head of this house of cards, this bungalow, this kitchen counter counting every new day spent forgetting the shore, picking the sand out of our fingernails, the pet goldfish dead & flushed down the toilet bowl back to sea.
see, the breakfast of champions is a capsule of bloodthinner. you’ll know it’s done its job when his eyes run milky white & frosted flake away & his limbs glaze over by the dozen. twinkie twinkie, little (you could be a) STAR
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sunny (Pomona 2025) is a queer poet & multidisciplinary creator born and raised in chicago, il. passionate about exploring storytelling as an avenue to intersectional liberation and self-preservation
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