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Sonnet for a Unit on Johnston Street that Has Not Been Gentrified Yet

I have parents, living in 1913 walls. Windowsills

are chipping, keeping them up is a toss. Watch

your hands. The night moths are much braver—

airborne seesaws. Off & on, as if swelling

from the mullioned lop meant more than flight—

the celerity of surviving 0.16 inches of life.

There is a record player they scored from a Target

sale next to the window. There are waxes. Everywhere.

The vinyls. The candles on the altars. Four of them.

The heat that comes through the windows are peeling

the sides of the player, but there is no more move room.

My father will not be throwing anything away. In fact, he dates

them. How long will this thing last? How long will it take to replace?

How long will we wait until we buy its replacement?

Alina Nguyen is a poet & creative from Highland Park, CA. She received a BA in English Literature & Asian American Studies from California State University, Northridge & an MFA in Creative Writing from California State University, Long Beach. She is also the co-founder of Free to Try & Mùa Mưa.

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