Real Americans

by Rachel Khong

The seed is unspectacular, so old it resembles a stone. Yet she’s aware it contains an entire future: roots, stems, leaves, blooms, to seeds once more—encoded, like she

She likes the fragrance of gardenias, but not the scent of lipstick. She doesn’t mind the rain. She is in love,

An expensive candle released its luxurious fragrance—money, literally burning.

my mother, who kept cloying department store perfumes spritzed on pieces of paper. She had never allowed herself a full bottle.

Love exposed you like a cooked fish, the skin peeled back.

“SUCCESS,” the poster said. “It’s never too late to be who you might have been.”