Confessions

Rosie Hong

wǒmen—or to say—we

are waiting by the sea, & i watch

my mother confess to receding

shorelines. there is only plurality

in her stories, only wǒmen, only

we. she never speaks of girlhood

for herself, her mouth always parted

symmetrical to her sisters, to women,

to other girls who hungered for a new home

land. & i can only watch

her body curl into a prayer, hands planted

on salt-slicked land. how a lack of time

is the best time for a confession.

my mother weaves her toes

under frostbitten kelp, trace the horizon &

maybe an endless road spirals

down a hill or maybe it’s a mirage

or maybe it’s a couple

of waves crashing into

each other. she speaks, stringing

stories because there is no time

left. see how the waves ebb

closer to the shoreline every

minute. i can’t see any

-thing she says. she laughs. ignorance is a beautiful

lie. how girls experience grief

twice in their lives. losing a mother & girl

-hood. &

wǒ—or to say—I

can only laugh in response.

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Rosie Hong is a writer from Houston, Texas. A 2024 YoungArts Winner with Distinction in Short Story and 2023 Scholastic Gold Medalist, her work is published or forthcoming in Rust & Moth, Vagabond City Lit, Bowseat, and others. She serves as the editor-in-chief of Fleeting Daze Magazine.