By Riley Lantine

Graduation

It’s spring.
It’s spring and I feel a resolving breeze rushing across me,
and the person next to me, and the person next to them.

My name is going to be called soon.
And I might hear gleeful cheers from my parents.
I might hear the squeals of my cousins.
I might feel my classmates nudge me,
and I might tear up.

Because as I close my eyes
for a brief moment,
I don’t feel the weight of the silk regalia on my shoulders.
I feel my mother’s arms around me,
And I am 11 again.

Because suddenly it’s Fall.
It’s Fall and the most of my worries
are wondering if I will be able to carve pumpkins in the evening.
It’s Fall and I can still rest all my worries
into my mother’s embrace.

Because I am 11 again
and I am running around with my brother in the front yard
while my father fixes his car,
and the faint turquoise pigments of Kool-Aid
are still on my tongue.

I don’t think I’m ready.
I don’t think I will be for a while.
But it’s spring.
And my name is going to be called soon.

So I think I will keep on running from my next chapter
until I find myself again
in the first few pages
with the arms of my mother around me.

–

Fragmented Inhales

Condensed breaths materialize from
my mouth. Shuddered inhales follow.

Clutching plastic bags full of sandwich
supplies and condiments, and I don’t have

spare change this time. Vibrations in the
pocket of my coat: Dinner is waiting.

I don’t feel as if I am falling
behind anymore. Buses blur by, and I

don’t feel as if I am the cynosure
of each passenger. I don’t stutter as

a woman asks me what time it is.
I release another breath.

The gift of existence embraces me
through the following inhales.

I have learned to take steps. I have
learned now. Maturity.

A boy stands next to me, struggling
to carry his groceries. The clatter

of spare change jingles in his pocket.
Buses pass by and he averts his eyes,

looking down at his feet. I don’t bother
to ask him the time, dinner is waiting.

The boy exhales, I inhale. Two sides
of the same coin, he will always be inside

of me, a warm feeling in my chest.
I may not hold your hand anymore,

but I know you’re there.

–

Riley Lantin is a 16-year-old from California. He is currently in high school and harbors a passion for poetry, with some of his works appearing in The Diamond Gazette, Literary Orphans, and The Longleaf Review. While not writing, you can find Riley listening to The Black Skirts or learning to crochet.