Hagar's Tears

I cry stars out of my eyes at night. Stars—they aren’t beautiful. You’d think they would be, but they aren’t. They cut my cheeks with their sharp points, drawing blood. When the dawn comes, even the sun flinches at the sight of my puffy eyes and the scars of scarlet on my skin.

I rise at first light, always struggling to haul myself up. I am heavy with the weight of this unknown child. But it doesn’t matter how I feel. This is my morning task now, to sweep the stars out of my tent before the others awake. I must be careful, or the stars might cut my feet, too. I scatter the cold, cruel light with my broom.

I sweep, and sweep, and sweep. How numberless these stars are, like grains of sand on a seashore. The unknown child stirs in me, like a small planet turning, like the tide coming in. 

Naomi Kim is an Asian American writer whose work has appeared in Lunch Ticket, Unbroken Journal, Patheos, and other publications. In the fall, she will begin working towards her PhD in English at Washington University in St. Louis.