Eliana Chow

the moon is the color of juice
from an unripe strawberry
or a deflated faded basketball
lost among the broken
bicycles in the garage
or the yellow traffic light

paint chipped on the edges
or the flash from a child’s toy
camera displaying photos
taken by someone else

a group of teens stand around
the bonfire faces bright
like the oversaturated filters
on your old Instagram posts
or the colors on a fox’s skin
flickering in the white Jeep’s high beams
or the playful lights on a Ferris wheel
through the eyes of a five-year-old
who doesn’t know what it’s like
to ride the ride alone