I travel westward to reach
earlier time zones. Cross a line

and I am an hour younger,
though my body doesn’t know it.

I will extend my life this way:
by crossing borders. My ancestors

did the same because they knew
that the only hometown is the skin,

and you can only ever claim one.
Nomads find no reason to age

except when they choose a life
of capture. But I am still a child

growing tired of the earth,
all bowl and dust, all dirt

rising into plume,
everything that rebirths.

—–

Steven Chung is seventeen years old and lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. Other works appear or are forthcoming in Glass, Potomac Review, Kweli, and more.