By Amanda Maret Scharf and Hannah Smith

In twenty years, we’re going to run out
of spaces for new residents. The bright light surveilled the parking lot
that once housed water. When I was young, I used to climb to the top
of the tower just to see past a tall building. It was a novelty to feel, against
my back, the weight of a wave contained, trapped in pre-stressed concrete.
From the sky, it must have seemed like I was thirsty, but in reality
I was bloated and fucked. Who wasn’t? Filled with a need
for liquid treasure and a garden that blooms year round. The only green
space in this city was a vertical lawn, a rising wall capitalizing
on the human desire for natural growth. It was a fantasy,
an upturned gaze into the clouds. Hot air rose
from the street grate, late summer sewage, a threshold
I could not pass.

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Amanda Maret Scharf is a poet from Los Angeles. Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in Pleiades, Poetry Northwest, The Iowa Review, and elsewhere. She holds an MFA in poetry at Ohio State University where she served as Poetry Editor for The Journal.

Hannah Smith is a writer from Dallas, Texas. She received an MFA in poetry at the Ohio State University, where she served as the Managing Editor of The Journal. Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in Gulf Coast, Ninth Letter, Mississippi Review, and elsewhere.