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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

Mount Sinai




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.

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