I used to live on a street
that consisted of only right
and left turns. The hill was so steep
going backwards wasn’t an option;
it seemed every trip’s finale
was preordained. I don’t believe in God,
but my parents have no sense
of direction, and I was four
years old, wanted to walk
to Mexico, take a shortcut through
the Marina district, skipping every
blue house until I could open
my eyes to a less
fabricated color. I used to see
how long I could balance
on the limbs of a pear tree, saw something
of myself in the flowering
fruit. It felt like leaning on an old friend.
I traded walking for biking
because I couldn’t yet drive
and Mexico was farther
than I had imagined.
Karinne Aguirre is a 17-year-old poet, high school student, twin sister, angsty daughter, guilty Stephen King fan; is prone to spontaneous emotion and is untrusting of orthodontists; is a social worker, hypocrite, jewelry stand, sometimes a lake, the worst biology teacher in the world, and is fond of knapsacks; is a page-turner, content creator, wannabe, luxury bed tester, bounty hunter, and always, always growing up.