by Jen Huh
Father tells us that mother can never know—that he takes us—he takes good care of us—he takes us to work. We ride in silver rush hour trains—striped red and seats candy-colored in M&M browns and orange and yellow. We sit quiet and see—see the world through scratched windows. We learn the world is quick and words smear like half wet ink on sides of hands and homes move like planes—slow when far and quick when passing. The train stops and goes and words stop and go and worlds stop and go and the world stops at Kenwood. Father holds our hands and leads us out of the train—downstairs to sidewalks that are wider—people that are bigger—to a street named Maxwell and to buildings called college. Here, Father tells us that mother must never know—that he orders us—he orders us hot dogs for breakfast—grown up hot dogs—his hot dogs—with mustard and tomatoes and relish and salt and a pickle and no onions and no peppers in the morning. We eat our hot dogs on the stairs of college. We eat slow and quiet and good because we do not want to lose—we do not want to lose one bit—one taste—because we know what does not go in our mouths we lose to the dirt. We eat knowing this—this is good—this is ours—this secret—this good morning.
Jen Huh is an artist, designer, and poet, whose practice focuses on concept development and blending humor, text/typography, fine arts and product design. Jen has earned an MFA Degree in Creative Writing with a concentration in Poetry from the New School and has worked as a teaching artist in the New York public schools. She currently works as the Assistant Director of Advising, guiding students in the BFA programs at Parsons The New School for Design.