The Summer I Tasted Mr. Softee’s Ice Cream

by Helen Chen

My grandma and I were hungry. 

Desiring sweetness.

A mother was ordering from Mister Softee’s

ice-cream truck for her son.

They weighted options like

us two.

The mother asked for another 

napkin and thanked the man

while the son licked the dripping drops 

of vanilla pressed for time.

Was it paradisaic delight?

Everyone wanted to be mother and son 

My grandma and I were craving 

the taste of Brooklyn summers.

After, the last tang of cone-crusted cream 

melted into his tongue, the boy recalibrated 

his very important conclusions. It was Cartwheel 

over Chocolate Dip over Rainbow Sprinkles.

I was 6-years-old and held in my grandma’s 

palm, downplaying hunger. Our stomachs knew 

how to settle with emptiness.

My grandma and I were still deciding 

on how to want, short of words while 

figuring out the how to our what. Summer 

was in full swing. Shafting 

air between our fingers.Thinning 

viscosity of virtue.

We were waiting for the mother 

to turn around and see two faces 

possessed by desire.

Waiting is just  virtue to quell waiting ones.

Our palm sweat, temptation. Mister Softee 

held out another Rainbow Sprinkle.

I wish for our vibrant tongues.

My grandma and I

each took a vertical sip of vanilla, letting it cool 

and leave an inky drip 

on our cracked lips.

Helen (she/they) is a Chinese-American writer based in NYC. Her work has been generously featured in 45th Parallel, Yellow Arrow Journal, (m)othertongues at Bennington College, and Mock Turtle Zine amongst others. She previously edited for The Brooklyn Reader and is the current editor-in-chief of Writeadelic, an international literary collective funded by the International Writing Program. She is an undergraduate at Columbia University. Find her online at helenchenwrites.com.