5:55am

I don’t wanna be anxiously
Attached.
Because, if we’re a match, then why is it
Anxiously?
Go. Leave with reckless abandon 
and I’ll stop fruitlessly trying to keep our 
intentions in tandem,
cycling through our old messages 
trying to keep my heart fed.
You always left me on read.

We lose the best parts of ourselves 
trying to kiss the pain of others
I grew tired of 
whispering into the roots of your family tree:
“Show me where it aches”
in the hopes of trying to know you.

Wrap rings around me, call me Saturn.
I bury my uncertainty beneath a mask until it’s my turn
and turn the soil. Hope masquerading as growth. 
All the while these thoughts permeate:
What if my fear learned to see, 
What if my heart knew to put on its armour 
before bathing in the joy of loving, her
What if my lungs knew not to drown in the rock pools of 
butterfly wings escaped from my stomach.

Shallow affection.

Love, don’t tell me my feelings are just too much
I’ve measured them out in the tattered pages of your favourite books, 
in sleeves of your shirts yet to be worn, 
so keep my heart there:
Tell me I’m just enough. 


Some days, I can’t bring myself to face myself, 
I don’t have the space to hold her and a
façade of what could have been.
And if I collected up, on bended knee 
all the pieces that I’d given away to souls who stealthily learned to mirror me, 
do you think I’d find enough to love me?
Wholly?
This affliction, addiction to searching is becoming unholy. 

Love, if you cared enough to ask
I’d tell you.
Tell you that I’m measuring my breaths in
the seconds minutes hours
I’d spent wishing you’d text.
In the words I’d let turn to embers in fireplaces, 
to feed flames, now your body isn’t here to keep me warm.
I’d tell you that time isn’t a healer,
that she’s a 
thief who creeps in, in the dead of night, pries my eyelids open with barbed fingers
slipping beneath sheets, serpentine.
Stirring our memories,
and waits there. 
On my chest. 
Holding my 
Breath. 

Waiting for…

by Tara Alexx Jay

Heartbeat

HER:

To me, you were god’s best piece of art-- nature’s beauty,

My eyes spotted you among hundreds of others,

A smile so enticing,

You were a blooming flower surrounded by a thicket of weeds, 

And I was a white butterfly that could never have your spotlight, 

It felt like spring on a gloomy Monday morning in October, 

I couldn’t help but loom closer to you, 

To admire your beautiful sight that I wished would remain in my eyes--forever, 

Not a second’s glance, yet I wondered? 

How would the nights be to sleep with your scent by my side? 

How would it be blessed to be looked upon by a sunflower like the way it does the sun? 

How would I live without caressing your cheeks, even if they are soft petals about to wilt? 

As I flew closer, my chest was filled with warmth and joy, 

Butterflies formed in my stomach,

My heart was thumping so loudly that it could’ve exploded, 

I batted my eyes so rapidly and my wings fluttered quickly,

At that moment, if you had beseeched, I would’ve wrapped my heart in your petals,

HIM:

I noticed her hovering near me and I smiled, 

I knew that she saw the sun in me, 

She longed to entangle her hands in mine, 

Like a butterfly landing on a flower’s antenna, 

Little does she know I’m a Venus Fly Trap disguised as a sunflower, 

As she approached, my heart paced faster, 

I could feel an adrenaline rush coursing through my body, 

My pulse matched hers, 

I couldn’t help but ponder? 

How would she endure it if I built castles in the air for her and then killed her dreams under my petals--softly? 

How would I live without her recognizing my true colors? 

How would she remain broken if I consumed her time, her patience, and her mind? 

I’m not as pure as she thinks I am. 

I would dare to share my pain by burning her wings and tainting them black.

I have no other option, for I am a Venus Fly Trap. 

I feed on pure souls. 

She is god’s most beautiful piece of art, 

And I enjoy altering paintings for my desires, 

For as long as they last.

by Anandi Gunda

Bad Habits

I don’t see your name on the top of my inbox, 

So I scroll down to your name--, 

A bashful smile sketches itself on my face, 

Thinking of all the crude jokes I unconsciously made, 

To hide my true intentions since I’ve been afraid, 

Hoping my feelings for you will fade, 

Then I send a reel I saved for you, 

I feel an unexplainable rush, like the feeling you get right before a roller coaster drops when I see you react, 

I’ve fastened myself onto an emotional ride that will eventually send me falling,

A feeling of euphoria takes over me and I reply within seconds, 

Though I know it’s been an hour since you’ve left me on seen, 

You are like a drug that slowly poisons me,  

I’ve been stuck in this spiral before and many have given me words of advice, 

Eventually, each of my loved ones turned out to be my rehabilitation center, 

Yet I never sought anything from their free therapy, 

But because I never got what I wanted I’ve never seen recovery, 

In due course, the side effects will hit me so I brace myself for facing hell again, 

I know by the time I reach the end of the ride and when the night changes, 

Your chat will be miles away to scroll but I’ll never be tired, 

When the morning sickness hits me and there are messages from other girls in your inbox, 

My brain will wire me to our previous chats, hoping you’ll see what I have, 

I want to unfasten myself from this roller coaster and stop this addiction! 

Is there a permanent solution to prevent me from injecting doses of your charm into me?

I refuse to rise to darkness and my best friend’s sobs, 

I face a downhill spiral: drops spill from the injection, drops flow from my eyes

Amid my glee, I unconsciously overdose myself,

How do I get you out of my recent chats? 

Do I have to block your account or do I have to block my impulsive thoughts? 

With the remaining unimpaired nerve cells and unburst alveoli,  

I beg you with a raspy voice, “Please release me from this ride,”

Please vanish from my recent chats as effortlessly as you entered. 

by Anandi Gunda

---

This poem was previously published on The Cleverly Creatives

Loss was found

You would have thought with something missing,

things would feel lighter.

I mean, yes, I lost weight,

But I had more on my mind.

You would never have seen me leaving my house

without my headphones on.

Because I knew only music could drown out 

the wind whispering your name. 

And I didn’t want to hear it.

In every 'how have you been?' and 'how is everything going?',

I experimented with how far I could stretch my answer from reality.

I didn’t want to say my time was being taken up attending

the same funeral of us, a hundred times a day.

That I was and still was the only visitor.

I kept people at a distance, 

I didn’t want anyone too close.

Because I didn’t want people to catch

the smell of death from my clothes.

There were two of us but only one was mourning.

Each morning, I awoke in a cemetery,

trying to bury all of the 'what ifs' under the surface.

But every tear I shed watered the dead.

into full bloom and more grief resurfaced. 

So I tried sowing new seeds. I really did.

Wishing for a new garden to grow.

I would stand there weeping into my watering can.

But I realised my watering can can’t

grow miracles, though.

I thought I could gain muscle trying to bench my thoughts.

But the only thing I strengthened was my muscle memory.

I could lift ten extra kilograms at the gym much easier. 

Because nothing was heavier than my thoughts.

To lighten my load I was told to focus on myself so

I would race laps in the park every day by myself.

And I would still come second.

I was doing everything I could,

But I could never outrun my grief.

And it brought me no relief to see

The seesaw we used to play on and so perfectly balance.

I should have known you were leaving forever

because your absence nailed my side so far into the ground.

I was so low I could only look upwards.

You were so high, you didn’t look down.

Or once, when you did, you couldn’t hide your smile from the sky. 

I didn’t need to be reminded that you were doing better without me.

So I unsynced our pictures from the cloud.

But it still rained and it poured.

I stopped using umbrellas because

the rain followed me closer

than my own shadow did.

So I unfollowed joy and love on social media. 

I would scroll past happiness and delight.

I would double tap on sorrow

I would refresh but be stuck on

the same loading screen every night.

And I’m silly in that I would fall asleep

watching it load only to wake up to

“page still not found”.

You would think with something missing,

things would feel lighter.

I mean, yes, I lost weight.

But I had more on my mind.

by Kavita K. Hansla

Watch Kavita’s reading here.

As this letter of autumn leaves

As this letter of autumn leaves

I wrote this with all intention, knowing it would find you.

Consider this hand-delivered, without stamp or address. 

For here it sits in your hand, and I hope the message envelops you. 

I sense the unyielding strength of your core. Without words, 

your grooves expose the tales of a thousand wretched storms. 

Yet against all odds, you stand unwavering, even. 

And all your ambition branches far out beyond what gives you shade. 

But separate from you, are the leaves. 

And I see you are learning that leaves are as beautiful as they are temporary. 

Everything that isn't you is the seasons. 

You can love any and all of your leaves so much. 

But even your favourite leaves will come and leave with each season. 

But please know, none were meant to stay. 

And I hope it is through watching your own leaves fall. 

That the message lands, that you don't need to fall with them. 

Instead, you let them teach you how to let go. 

A tree without leaves is no less than a tree with, you know. 

And leaves fall to pave paths for new growth. 

It is only a matter of time until you sprout new leaves again. 

And you will adore and mourn them through every season. 

My wish for you is that you always remember you are the tree. 

The one thing in this life you need to keep coming back to. 

It will be the greatest thing you ever did. 

For in your search for what is constant, you have always been it. 

And like this paper derived from fibres of trees, 

this message embodies the essence of you.

So as this letter of autumn leaves, 

I hope to return you to you.

by Kavita K. Hansla

lemonade

slathered with sweet oils and fruit butters my skin still pulps in the winter winds. i have a life full of simple pleasures. the body, a terribly incompatible temple to the mind, and not enough lavender to soothe things. bowls of soup and piles of clean fish bones, clean unfolded clothes, all well and good, yes. yet this soulless osmosis cannot be stopped through only these means.

how to break an awkward stare with a kiss,
to move from hand-holding to starry-eyed copulation. from liking the band on someone’s shirt to a deep, nearly unheard of intimacy. how to fall in love with oneself by affirming that it is okay to weep.
let’s just start here.

the body: a heavily armed, and sacred room. its incongruencies are only perceived.

put the mind on the table.
but do not poke it with that stick.
sing to her, softly.
sing to her.

by Amaya Branche

PRIMARY COLORS

i. red 
is splattered everywhere like paint—only it isn’t paint. like monet, he was a painter. but while monet used nine, he used one color exclusively—red, the color of intensity. great artists squeezed paint out from tin tubes but as for him, beat blue and broken, he squeezed paint out from his faintly beating heart. chest heaving, the coppery tang still sharp in the air. with shaking breaths and bitter tears the boy carved out red lines, the beginnings of his masterpiece damaged by design. 

he slaps brushstroke after brushstroke down, spilling blood in the water for the sharks of reality; wildest of red petunias and poppies bloomed as he painted them to life. all these artists had their paintings sought after, cherished—oh to be valued like monet, immortalized as impressionist of sunrise and van gogh, exalted as expressionist of the starry night. as for him, scabs and scars formed over his broken mind, marring the heart of his art—red paint. after every time, he wonders in bitter amusement how it is possible that he is still numb. in silence he wished he felt a little shred of life, enough to hope that he is worth something. in agony he asks himself over and over and o-v-e-r again—

what is the dead artist’s effect?

ii. yellow
like rays of sun sparks stream out from her—golden girl is all she is. society says that laughter is the best medicine, so she blinks blindly and laughs with wild abandon; perhaps she can cure herself. 

everyone’s golden girl by day, mere faceless facade by night. she is a fake, a person she cannot recognize anymore. she is pyrite masquerading as twenty-four carat—worthless, but with an appearance that fools people into thinking she is so much more than shiny fool’s gold. what is the meaning of the color yellow? she searches to no avail as the same words smirk at her, mocked by “yellow is of hope and happiness.” yet tucked away, in small letters like a suppressed whisper, taunting truths seep out: yellow is a symbol of [her] cowardice, of [her] sickness, of [her] betrayal, of [her] madness. slowly, slowly, the golden—no, pyrite girl—shatters away against the hammer of life, smiling and laughing as she descends (alone) into her spiral of yellow. unbeknownst, she is screaming at society all the way down—

why can’t i be happy, too?

iii. blue 
rolls down his cheeks, large droplets of what the heart craves to say but cannot put into words. a slight sheen forms across his eyes, glistening like morning dew formed from the frigid, apathetic touch of night. crumpled in the bathroom, he clenches his fists until all his knuckles have been cracked thrice-over, until the pale-blue of his veins threaten to burst through his paper-thin skin. crumpled against the scratched wooden door, he lets his shoulders shake—irrepressible hysteria. crumpled on the laminated floor, he presses his face to the ground, a puddle forming on that swollen, water-damaged corner from all the past times he was in this exact same position. 

and then he scrapes the tears off his face with his nail-bitten hands. he peels off his salt-soaked skin. he glues an unblemished one on, preparing to tell everyone not to worry about him because of course he was fine, why wouldn’t he be? because he was just not good enough, because he was undeserving of their concern. but as he walks out with the blankest of faces and the most neutral of expressions, he is still begging for an answer. knowing that today is another day of hollow hopes when he asks in vain—

when will i really be enough?

by Isabel Gan

If/Make It With You

i replay the record till it scratches and skips, 
i keep repeating the same old verses even when
they start to stink; it is good enough that the smell
is there to remind me of you, and every inch of
your stupidity that once endeared you to me, 
somehow i do not have it anymore and i can 
only find it in shallow lyrics where i pretend there
is a better story than this, some sort of alternative, but
i just know i would have made all the same mistakes 
only to swear by my innocence—if i bleed white
then so be it, it is proof only to me and no one else; 
if i bleed red, then let yourself be marooned by me, 
when i know i could launch more than a thousand ships. 

track 1: accidentally in love - counting crows
i secretly grew tired of this song, and now i resent it 
even more, even more now that it only reminds me of 
you—it uses the word “love” every other verse and no 
longer do i want to associate you with that grotesque 
word, no longer do i want to know what you do or who
you’re with, but freedom is cruel now that i have it, 
and so were you when i had you, i do not want for any
more in this world, i take everything i own for granted. 

track 2: kiss me - sixpence none the richer
it is better, a source of relief even, that this is one track
that does not bring back the thought of you, i think of
autumns i have never visited, and leaves that do not fall, 
i am alone and none the lonelier, but i have friends that
i dial up for days and nights and answer to every call; 
there is too much love that once i had for you, that now
is just all up for fifty per cent off, i let your love go; it 
wasn’t my call to make but i do not ask for any payback.

by Leya Kuan

The Fall of 2024

Today I tried to write again, but my mind is empty and 
So are my hands; I have spent them all away, on 
Blouses just to prove that I lost a couple of pounds,
And bits of some things to show myself that I have more
Than a couple of pounds—my mind is far, far away, and
Yet—but—so—and—half of me has been here to bear
Witness, to bare what is left of me before it all chips 
Away, a way to remember the words I have used only to
Pour the ink all over the curves and blur it all back 
Together, but at least this is what remains, and what is 
Left of me, the last bit of common sense that I will 
Never use, from the beginning to the present end. 

I am still young, I tell myself, and there is still so much 
Time left in the world, all of it, time enough for only
you and I, in the lateness of the morning and the early
Beginnings at the end of the year, but every candidate For my affections brings this old feeling that only you
Bore, by land or by sea, whatever it is, there is still 
Distance by heart or by proximity, so I keep ringing up 
The couriers and reminding them of my free shipping, 
I keep calling you up so you know that I am living, who
Cares to live if it is not for your love? Spill that apathy 
From my lips to your faithless country, spit that venom
From your faith to my fate, let it go every time we touch. 

Today I remind myself that I am a writer so I must write 
But I have given all my words away to the garden of 
False fairies and godless gnomes, I claim it’s charity but
I truly only need a facade of generosity for my vanity, 
I let myself believe that I have kindness in my heart, so
I may put myself to sleep in the belief of my purity, 
You have robbed me of my sentences to string you 
Along, now there are no more words to fill up a meaning
And there are no more syllables to make up your song, 
You have judged to sentence me to a silent misery, 
If there is some regret in you, may it chain you to every 
Inch of the servitude that I once volunteered for you. 

I carry with me my words and our noises, I recite it with
A couple thousands steps along the way to put me in 
God’s way and to my own ease—if physicality is your
Intimacy then you must be as pure as the Madonna, if 
Words are my intimacy then I should be as filthy as any
Other smut on a whore, but who are you to fall to your 
Feet and declare yourself my friend? And who is he to 
Turn on his feet and become a heartless foe? Call it 
What you want—whatever lies you may tell yourself 
And wherever your heart belongs, whoever you are 
Holding me now in your hand, I know a thousand 
Poems cannot save me anymore, more than ever before. 

by Leya Kuan

You are Just a Friend

Every lie you tell me belongs in Heaven 
and every shred of truth can go right down to the depths of Hell—pour it out of half my soul and fill up your cup
Just because you are just, just because we only are just, 
You make me nineteen in the same way you are, you 
Bring me back to the childhood I lost when I was fifteen, 
Stop the time and stop that man! Stop it all at the line, 
Can’t we just be alone with no other entity to prey upon 
Us? Can’t we be left alone on our own without a prayer?

Maybe I will never be her, I cannot love you because 
Someone else got to get to you first, but there is this
One beating in my heart that I cannot put to a feeling, 
But how nice that she got to hold you in her arms and 
Declare that skin hers to feel to a fault, I get to hold you
Too but without a word to hold me accountable, even if
I am content with this worthless warmth, Winehouse has
To warn me some waiting urgency, that my heart will 
Break for you every time, just because I am/was not her.

And as much as I dream and delude myself into 
Believing I am some film star with a camera trailing my
My lines and my moves, you will remember that certain
Part of me that no one else will bother with, no one no 
More, the more I feel, the more I would like to forget, 
I write this in my underwear, I do not let you look
Under where my truth leads to, there is nothing more 
Than what meets the naked eye, I am so predictable that
Everybody already knows, everybody talks as if they do. 

Whatever you want to call me, love, or Leya, 
Let me fall in love alone and mend the heart you did not get to break, it is not your fault that my days are filled with you, even worse when my days have no hint of you, 
Have you the courage equal to my desire? I clap with
One hand tied behind my back, fingers crossed, in 
Anticipation or to relieve me of any red herring you laid
Out for me to trip all over, I could swear that there was 
Someone for me to love, another Troy for me to destroy. 

by Leya Kuan

A Writer’s Prescription for Unexplained Aches

A large dose of words—
by candlelight and in patterned socks/ to be
found on a shelf within a strong spine/ or passed
through lips/ in song/ chant/ prayer/ apology/ in a 
coffee shop with your friend with kind eyes/ cradled
in your lover’s arms/ a large dose of words/ large enough 
to fill pages in blue ink/ or overflow your kitchen sink/ repeat 
until you see emerald grass and a sapphire sky/ until the night 
air is not hungry for your blood/ repeat until the weight of the 
world lifts from the small of your back/ until each word lays
a brick for the house you needed since your bones were young

by Chandra Persaud

Untitled

i. An ex-lover told me that I chew people up and spit them out after I am finished with them. They are left half-consumed, the enzymes from my saliva still working at their gnawed flesh. I cannot deny the way I used to toy around with hearts like a curious kitten, pawing back and forth at them until they served no use to me.
I did not know what love was then.
Maybe I still don’t.
ii. Jackson C. Frank’s warbling through the tin-toned speakers reminds me that even if I caught a boat back to England, maybe even to Spain, that the blues would catch up with me either way. And not the type of blue that washes over you as a weighted blanket, a calm that envelops you in peaceful slumber. But rather a blue in which you drown, that eventually consumes you in all manners of sadness. A dark blue tidal wave crashes into you, shifting tides and carrying you in its undertow as you struggle to surface.
Please do not leave me.
Please do not make me succumb to this spectrum of blue.
iii. Scars are just the remnants of an open and bare flesh wound. One day, with time and effort, they will heal. Topical ointments do their damnedest to soothe the tissue, but it is not a cure-all healing salve. Just like heartbreak. Just like the way you left in the middle of the night, in silence. A ghost that haunts me even now; to this day. Perhaps I deserve this. Maybe it is our God-given right to have our souls remain shackled at the ankles for all our transgressions against one another.
You were right: I am but a lowly sinner, I can try to atone at your feet, exalting your name and paying you alms for all the petty jabs and stabs I managed to get in.
But so are you.
A toxic flower with petals unfurled, yearning to bloom, but no proper fertiliser and care, so you remain an unsprouted bulb, your roots so meek and feeble that the former shadow of yourself no longer exists.

by Christa Lei

para mi vato

unas palabras para el vato que quiero
a piece of mexican love, from my chicana heart.

mi vato, eres lluvia
eres mi tristeza y mi crecimiento,
me haces sentir diferente cada día,
aunque mis emociones terminan siendo las mismas,
te quiero, podría declarar fácilmente bajo cualquier juramento – eres tu, vato, el que tiene mi corazón.

yo sé que tu sabes –
pero también sé que el recordatorio no hace daño. así que por última vez, mi vato, te quiero.

sinceramente,
mia.

by M.S. Blues

mi amor está aquí (esperándote)

para chris

–

siempre fui hipnotizado por ti, quierdo,
mucho antes de que te conviertes en hombre, te quiera.

cuando dejamos de hablar la primera vez, traté de olvidarte.
me entregué a las distracciones y al mal amor.
lo cual funcionó, porque durante años, mi mente estaba vacía de cualquier recuerdo tuyo.

luego vino el cine el 1 de noviembre mi cumpleaños –
habían pasado años desde que te vi,
sin embargo, viejos sentimientos regresaron a mi corazón,
y me di cuenta de que ahora eres un hombre, ya no solo el vato que me gustaba en aquel entonces –
tu voz se hizo más profunda,
tus ojos tenían un propósito,
y tu boca pronunció palabras reales,
no las tonterías y maldiciones que pronunciamos en aquel entonces.

después de estas observaciones, supe que mi amor se había encendido nuevamente,
sólo la llama era mayor que antes.

continúe siguiendo esa llama,
… y comenzamos a hablar de nuevo,
olvidándonos de los años transcurridos entre nosotros.
era como si volviéramos a ser jóvenes, salvajes, y libres.

a medida que pasaban los días, más me enamoraba de ti.
se volvió demasiado difícil de soportar,
así que un día abrí la boca y te lo dije,
y tu amor mió, respondiste diciendo: “intentemoslo.”
no podría haber estado más feliz.
pero, como suele decirse, la felicidad no llega fácilmente,
me abandonaste, amor, antes de que pudiéramos dar el primer paso juntos como uno solo.
no entendí, así que hice lo que sólo sabía. me fui de nuevo y tomamos caminos separados.
pero eso no significa que no estuviera devastada.

durante meses, amor mió, eras todo lo que tenía en mente.
cerraría los ojos y tu rostro estaría allí, mientras tu voz resonaba en mis oídos.
supongo que realmente eres especial.

–

luego llegó febrero,
y volviste a la anarquía de mi vida.

me recogiste de hamilton y, con un amigo, nos aventuramos por la ciudad.
se intercambiaron palabras bajo los ojos de sol,
y hice lo mejor que pude para escuchar,
a pesar de la hipnosis de este maldito amor que me invade cada vez que hablas.
solo desearía que supieras lo que me hiciste.
al final de la noche, declaramos hablar de nuevo, reavivar la llama.

y lo hicimos.
hablamos y esa llama en mi corazón se convirtió en un infierno de amor abrumador.

creo que finalmente reconociste mi amor por ti,
porque me expresaste una verdad que has albergado durante mucho tiempo.

crees que no eres lo suficientemente buena para mi.
crees que me arrastraras hacia abajo.

amante, no podría estar más en contra de estos pensamientos que tienes.

déjame decirte, mi amor.
te mereces todo lo que hay en mi –
cada maldito pedazo de mi corazón, alma, mente, cuerpo y amor.
te lo doy todo.

pero la elección es tuya, mi amor.
tienes que luchar contra tus demonios y cruzar el otro lado de la carretera –
porque ahí es donde estoy, esperando.
mi amor y yo estamos aquí, esperándote.

by M.S. Blues

My Faith in Fate

You used to be someone—
Never mind who, never mind when,
But you used to
Cry at heartbreaking moments of a talkie,
Sob at the words at the end of a knife,
Do your tears dry up when you’re sixty?
Or is it all gone,
That surface-level sorrow, that lonesome feeling,
At the sight of your first wrinkle in the mirror?

You wished to be someone—
Never mind those dreams, never mind them at all,
Because they are figments of your imagination,
And they linger, still, in the corners of your mind,
Vanishing behind the shadows of your children,
And on the heels of your husband’s leather shoes,
A singer, no, you couldn’t get to the highest notes,
A surgeon, no, you hate ketchup and blood,
Resigned to being somebody’s wife, someone’s mother.

You talked about yourself—
Never mind your name, never mind your voice,
They see your face, pat your husband on the back,
They talk to you through your husband,
You don’t know words, you are deaf and mute,
You are spoken for, and speak only when spoken to,
A child, you are ushered towards the other wives,
Have fun, play with toys till it’s time to go,
You hate them all, the talking heads and drunkards.

You don’t know what to do–
Never mind yourself, never mind yourself at all,
They don’t know your name, they don’t remember,
You are Mrs So-and-So, So-and-So’s mother!
Your mother-in-law is a mother only to to your husband,
Only till you belong to the Earth once more,
To be resigned to fate once is divine punishment,
To meet a coincidence of fate again divine death,
And yet the dirt in between your toes disappears.

by Leya Kuan

You/I Will

Sweetheart, I call you,
One day, if that day should ever begin,
You will be with your family, your children, your wife
And you will think of me, of us,
And you will stare at the yellowed photos of us,
It sends you into a trance, it was a simpler time,
Of days of flowers and folded notes,
Fleeing, fleeting, lost to the ashes of time.

Darling, I say your name,
You will be asleep on the couch, tie loosened, shirt unbuttoned,
You can’t hear me, or rather, you choose not to,
And I’ll wonder whatever this was all for,
If not for love, then for the guarantee of it,
I’ll put a blanket over you, think about holding a pillow over you,
And the days go by, just like that,
Slowly, surely, lost to the obscurity of our family’s time.

Sweetheart, I say again,
You will tell some story about us being young lovers,
And I will–obviously–beg you to spare me the blushing cheeks,
Each time you tell it there’s a different detail,
Each time I smile there’s a different wrinkle,
But when the children and grandchildren disperse out the door,
You’ll still be waiting there to see if anyone’s looking,
Softly, secretly, a kiss between two old youngsters.

Darling, if that day should ever come,
Then I’ll call my friends up and tell them I’m a fortune teller,
I’ve got the hottest news on celebrity gossip and lottery numbers,
But you’ll sit here, and you’ll wait for me, as I brag and cackle,
If that day should never come, then you will be there,
Still in a trance, still next to your wife, and I will be
Gone, or somewhere far away with someone else,
Always, after all, still on your mind.

by Leya Kuan

BLOOD SUCKING SUCCUBUS

You’ve stuffed my heart with empty words
Fatten and full, ripe for picking.
You’ve eaten the hearts of all those before me
But you won’t eat mine.
You’ve bitten, nibble, sucked,
No more than a mouthful
But you won’t fill your belly on me.

Find someone else to roll over,
Crack open their ribs and feast on their soul
Fill your desolate tank of broken hearts,
But you won't get mine.
Not over my dead body
Or my blood-fattened heart.

by Giesle Thompson

MARIGOLDS

“You’re worth more than marigolds” but less than your shoes. Footprints left on the petals of my skin and the roots of my mind. Brittle and bruised, picked and used by you. Absent of any light or hope, I’ll wait for you. After all you put me through, I’ll wait for you. You planted yourself next to my self-worth and shouted “Pick me, pick me”. As soon as I took you back, you bruised me. A wilted flower in a pretty garden, no one will want me.

by Giesle Thompson

I. won’t. wither.

When my husband turned 70
They gave him a cane carved
with the body
of the red-winged sparrow.

I was left
with dried lily petals
melting into my tongue
as I peeled
hardened skins of summer
grapes beneath my fingernails.

When my husband turned 75
He brought a dancing girl home.
Her name sounded like
"Red-tipped carnation of the West Wind"
She plucked the seeds out of
spring strawberries
with slender twin fingers.

When my husband turned 80
He filled my bowels with
cheap white wine
and forced me to sleep with
alley-way cats.

I shared a feast
of rotting salmon and fishbone
with the blind black
tiger.

When my husband died
Our son carried me upon his back
to the Forest of One Thousand Whispers
He set me beneath the eldest oak
Kissed my spotted cheek and
bade me a tearless farewell.

Still,

My legs entwine
with the roots of the
great Oak, my fingers take the flight
of ten thousand cerulean
swallows
My lips form the
babbling brook of the east meadow
as my eyes turn to
seaglass
beneath unturned stones.

I. won't. wither.

by Katherine Zhao

The Fireflies Sing Tonight

Murmurs hum in the thick August air like the
beating of a bumblebee's heart, the invisible
orchestra's cadence drawing the final curtain upon
the fox's tail cradling an orange sun.

Mother runs through the auburn fields, coal-colored
braids trailing in the wind. Her weathered hands carry a
tin pot, where she drops moonstones, bluebonnets and
lovebugs in a concoction of sap — "Honeypot tricks," she calls them.

As the sky becomes swatched with indigo hues and
black clouds, I take a wooden spoon and clang it against
Mother's honeypot. The fireflies come to feast upon her offerings
and, in return, show me the path to the city.

Twinkling lights dot the skyline as jazz beyond the bayou
shakes the earth beneath the soles of my feet. Coca-Cola lines
stretch around the curb as ladies in black sequins and
smoky pearls enter golden doors under neon lights. Boys
and girls in summer shorts & pinstripe tees chase the sparks
of orange fireworks.

I follow them but they are lost in cobblestone storefronts. Busboy
caps line the streetlamps as newspaper rags form coats of steel along the
brick walls of alleyways. A man with broken teeth who looks like me
asks, "Got a quarter for me, Missy?" but the fireflies ignore him and fly on.

I sequester myself in a silent theater as a piano crescendo
collides with the rainstorm brewing outside. The movie
begins to play, and I begin to cry for Mother.

by Katherine Zhao