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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

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

Shadow of a Star - Leslie Cheung

Shadow of a Star
Has your soul changed at all
Since we last spoke?
This month your voice sounds the loudest,
I remember your death more than your birthday,
I remember the tears I shed every April First,
Mourning each passing year as it
Comes and goes like the droplets on my cheeks,
I remember your shadow more than your presence,
Mourning a person I never even knew
A voice on the radio, a reflection of light,
In your grasp, in your eyes, the world is small.

Has your voice changed,
Would you sing for me, if Heaven, if Hell,
Could you remind me of
The way things used to be,
Even though I never knew it, never knew you,
But maybe—just maybe—
In your foregone reality, there’s still the possibility,
And I think we could’ve been great friends,
Or maybe you would’ve hated me,
Maybe it could’ve all passed us by,
Like nameless ships in the sea, nothing ever exchanged.

Love of my life, love of many lives,
Your voice remains in my mind still,
You are gone, but a mere shadow,
But maybe–just maybe–
We shall leave together, you and I,
When I am alone, your soul remains with me still,
A friend in the dark, a voice, a shadow nonetheless,
I have to remind myself that you are far away,
And I do not know you, I never did,
Yet there is today, a missed opportunity of time,
Until next time, farewell my concubine.

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

The Apocalypse Never Ends For Some of Us

They call it assimilation
I call it annihilation.

The belief that you must shed yourself
to access the white man’s bliss
when they have labeled you the white man’s burden.

It cuts like a dull knife, rough, & jagged, and though there’s no blood
there’s still loss; not all violence is as clear as a fist to the face.

Many give in to survive, but whether it is self-inflicted or imposed
it creates a wound that will not close. Not on its own.

I’ve heard it said that not all skinfolk are kinfolk
and it’s sad how we confuse monoliths for unity
and shrug off our communities.

They teach us if we don’t speak right we don’t deserve to be heard
by who holds the power. They cannot exert it if they don’t have it.
And they cannot have it unless you give it, so instead they take it.

And it’s not a crime if it’s sanctioned by the state
when violence becomes law they don’t have to negotiate
because ‘the law is the law’.

This is why they don’t want us to think.

So, when they call for my assimilation
I will respond with this declaration.

-yo no me quito.

by Kamilah Mercedes Valentín Díaz

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

Sacred ground

What is sacred ground?
Is it a ground steeped in rituals —
poured libations penetrating earth
finding routes to ancestors and memory?

Is it a place that holds the dead
or once-dead?
Is it a place where spirits walk
haunted by the irreverent nature
of those with flesh and bone ?

Is this body a sacred ground?
Does it remain sacred if others
have exploited,
treated it like a mining ground
emptied it of treasures,
planted seeds of death –
Left it hollow?

Is this body still hallowed
if no one is there to say a prayer
for its healing?

(my tongue has found no language yet for healing words)

If ancestors don’t hear it’s cries
to find their way back
to this body

to gift it flight

and
grounding.

Is this body still sacred ground if it’s not seen?

by Karolyn K Smith

The grief eater

When my grandfather died
I thought my world would end.

My grandmother, teary eyed
And shaky voiced, said to me

“You wished it was me
they laid in that casket, nuh true?”

I, eyes swollen and tongue heavy
from biting back words, let loose

“He should be here with me now
He should not be the one

Who wanders through these rooms
formless and untouchable.”

I did not wait to watch her tears fall;
I never thought she could cry.

She let a choke-sound escape
but she hit her chest twice

then swallowed loudly
and walked briskly away.

Years on years would fly by and
grief became a muted song

But my words to her would remain
gnawing at my tender heart.

When her memory began to fail,
I prayed my grief-spurned words

disappeared into the abyss like
the fact that the story she was

telling me was about the tenth
telling in half hour or less.

I spread “I love you” (and meant it) over our conversations, like a blanket.

I prayed she held those so close
That even in her now formless state

It warms her and reminds her
Of the little girl she loved so fiercely

that she attempted to take her grief
And hurt and swallow it whole.

by Karolyn K Smith

The Love Story of our Friendship

Where do I begin…you promised to be here for me to the end… you have seen the good, the bad and the ugly… but you never made me feel less than and felt that you were above me. I remember when we first met, we talked about all our hopes and dreams… but whenever I felt doubtful you always reminded me that my dreams are never as far as they may seem.

You seen me laugh… you seen me cry… you have seen all of my faces and different sides… you always seem to bring me out of my shell… but also create a safe place for me to tell my deepest thoughts and secrets in which you promise never to tell… you know when I have the tendency to put up walls… but I don’t have to be scared with you by my side because you’ll catch me every time I fall… you wipe away my tears from all the pain of it all.

This world would be harder to deal with if I didn’t have you in my life… if we never would have met it would have been a harder fight... but I love you and you mean so much that I’ll always hold you tight… even in the darkest of times you always seem to find the light… make me feel alright… I have so much love for you that no amount of words can describe… thank you so much for being my ride or die.

by NelliKong Psalms

Escape From Your Heart

It’s hard for you to have your feelings for me escape from your heart… you felt your world change when I got on a different plane to depart… that’s when you started to fall apart… not to a different location, but we aren’t in the same place… you felt like another person would be able to take my place… we’re moving at a different pace… now you fell flat on your face and looking for saving grace.

The way that I made your heart feel with an abidance of emotion… you took for granted my time and devotion… but soon you’ll realize that I’m never coming back and you’ll wish to have a magi potion, to beg for my return… now those tears you cry actually burn.

You can’t escape the impact that I had on your life… now you feel alone because you lost the fight… now you feel the pain you caused, each and every slice… the weight that held me down, now I’m free to fly high like a kite… now you’re left with the bill to pay the price.

by NelliKong Psalms

Blue tutus and pink cleats

A stranger stares back at me when I look at the mirror.
A scar I don’t recognize. Yet I know very well. A stranger looks back at me as I was up and stare at the mirror. Movements following mine, and somehow it’s different.
A frown in place of the smile I try to muster as I glance at them.
Their hair, cut shorter than what is deemed normal for someone like me. And I am jealous.
Jealous of the fact that I can’t stand mine to be long,
And yet, if it were cut,
It feels like something is ripped out of me.
I wake up sometimes, and the stranger is gone.
But I still don’t recognize the figure in front of me.
So familiar, yet so odd.
They smile when I forcefully smile.
Which is a plus. I think.
And they have that aggravating hair.
It’s bearable to look at.
I don’t throw up.
Which is a plus.
I wake up in panic.
And I can’t breathe.
I can’t see the stranger or the familiar figure.
And I feel like my insides are being turned.
Where are they?
It’s terrifying. The idea of them being gone.
Why are they gone?
When I can’t find either of them, I feel like vomiting.
A sense of despair clings to me as I stare at the blank mirror.
No one is staring back at me.
It feels like my lungs are filling with water, and I am drowning. Drowning in this nonexistent sea.
Trying to float, and yet I can’t.
Because the more I try, the more I feel like I am sinking.
Sinking with a heavy nonexistent ship.
And all I can hear is static.
Numbness all around me .
Making me wish I had drowned.

These are the days I avoid mirrors.
I avoid the color blue and the color pink.

Which makes me feel like I’ve been hit by a train.
Except sometimes it feels like a train is a lighter punishment, Compared to what I feel.

It lasts days, before the stranger comes back.
And I don’t know whether to be elated or enraged.
Excited that they’re back, that they are there,
That I don’t have to do this alone, or angry.
Angry for not being normal.
Despite feeling relief that they are back, I avoid the mirror for days. Before I can get comfortable with who’s staring back at me. Features different from what people call the norm.
Yet blinking when I do.

Brushing their teeth when I do.
And it takes days for me to get accustomed to it.
Days to not look at him and shout in anger and frustration.
Because why do they get to be like that and I can’t.
Yet when I do get accustomed, he is gone.
Gone like he was never there, and is replaced with her

The ‘normal’, yet unfamiliar face staring back at me.
Dead, soulless eyes.
Eyebags for days.
Sporting the same defeated look I do.
And I don’t know whether I should burst into tears,

Because finally, it’s kinda normal.
And yet, the look she gives me makes me feel disgusted.
I don’t like her. And yet I am glad.
Glad she’s back, and I’m normal.
But I’m still in that void, a dark void.
Filled with unopened Barbie dolls and new soccer balls.
I’m still chained to that void. Unable to move.
The strangers pulls me to him, but I am tired, tired.
Too tired to move, or eve breathe by the time he gets close to me. She drags me back, but I claw away, or at least try to.
I can never put up a good fight.
The days I get pulled like a game of tug of war,
Are days I fee like I will vomit.

Yet I don’t despise them, no matter how much it hurts. At least they are there in the mirror and I am not alone.
It’s the days I am left in the middle, all alone, that it feels like
I am sinking and that mud is filling my lungs.
It gets hard to breathe, and I feel like every inch of my strength is zapped.
As I try to look for him and her.
I’d rather vomit, than be alone.
Being alone is scary,
Not seeing them staring back at me in the mirror.
It’s terrifying.
There are days when it becomes too much and all I can do is cry.
Because the stranger is there when I wanted her to be there.
Or she’s there but I wanted him there.
And I can’t do anything about it. I can’t do anything about the sensation I feel
Of wanting to shed my own skin, because it doesn’t look right.
The parts are different.
No matter how much I cry, I can’t do anything about it.
Because it’s not ‘normal’.
But what exactly is normal?
I don’t know.
All I know I is that often times I wake up with a stranger in the mirror, and other times with a

familiar, yet odd figure.
But nothing is more terrifying than waking up and neither is there.
Because if they’re not there, what am I?
I would rather feel like vomiting when I stare at the mirror,
Than feel like I am being drowned by mud.
Hopefully one day I can muster up a real smile to whoever is staring back at me.
And we become friends.

by Anahi Cabrera

She is gone now

The sight

of flour on skin,

age spots

form an archipelago

across your arms.

a clutter
of dusty
pictures and
rosaries
under your bed.

Life, you’d sometimes think, hadn’t been that good to me.

Girdles that
squeezed
your fibroid
infested womb—
An old hallowed out

home to five
Barricaded
Against
Life.


You comb

your unruly

hair back;
look uncomfortable.
The look is not you.
I love it when you just
Let it be—

rather than tame it
And look like a scared
Old lady
Instead of the courageous
Heroine that you are.



You still store things
Away
In overflowing drawers
And cupboards
Afraid that one day
You will need

Something

& it will not be there:

What trauma
Gave birth to that?



You say,
I feel your mother
Is doing something

To me—

Like I can’t put my
Fingers on it –
Your hands, exasperated go up in the air

Only to slowly come down

And rest, at your side

Powerless.

We loved each other once.

The nights
I fell asleep
under the
symphony
of your snores:
Uncountable.
Sleeping,
side by side
A woman, and her grandchild.




You say,
Pointing to
A brand new

Press, you say,

Look at that

What my
daughter

Buy for me—

You know what she say?
She say,

when you die

I’m taking it back.

What kind of thing

Is that to say? And you

Schweups at the

callousness of your


Child.



You’ve got:

Two kitchens,

a Toilet

without a door,

social security

checks

deposited

In

Brooklyn.


We walk
down the street
and you smile at
a stranger,
and giggle like
a child...
But wait nah,
you say, stopping,
in a daze. I
thought that was
Nen-nen, but
nen-nen
die long
time now...

What is happening to me, you ask?

& no matter how
hard I try,

I can not answer:

Alzheimers.

by Lesley-Ann Brown

Miles in my skin

These are mine – they are the breadth of the world and the length of my life.

It is the arcade tickets in blue that now look brown,

And the movie stubs, creased and torn in two

That let me know I was ever there with you.

I have created space in every wallet, every room

To make sure your things were never absent

To cherish our time spent.

Until ‘you’ meant someone new

And I would cry when I found I could create new spaces to fill,

Reminding me of the strength my hands had

To build new drawers and keep moving forward.

Some things I lost on my travels and I am even glad,

(Not having them makes me remember more)

To not carry much with me when I explore.

But tucked away, under thorns and brambles, as often as I can,

I look under them to see if I can find anything more to know about you.

Though you are galaxies away and I no longer see them in your eyes,

It is the moon that recalls our last goodbyes.

And it is a pity I have nothing else to remember that by.

by Hannah

Memory Among Flowers

I still see those wildflowers

With stippled white powdered petals

On nimble stems branching off the stalk

They stand tall, resting under my chin

In that large field with the ombre sunset

Layered behind blooming stems

My mother scooped me up in her arms

Before taking me back home

Leaving behind the wildflowers

I was only two years old yet

I can see them clear as day

I still see those young dandelions

With their strands of yellow that have yet

To turn into seedful fluff blown across spring air

I used to give these flowers to my teachers

Who scolded me for giving them weeds

I did not know any better

I still thought they were beautiful

I was only six years old yet

I can see them clear as day

I still see those little daisies

With their pollen deep centers

The same flowers my best friend used

To decorate my braids of hair

During recesses in spring

She was moving to a new school

One where her mother found a job

I still have one of her hair clips

That she gave on the last day of school

I wish I could give it back to her

I wonder if she would recognize me

Without daisies in my braids

I was only nine years old yet

I can see them clear as day

I still see those lush blue bonnets

With their crowded velvet petals

That grew in the field close to my house

Where girls from the local high school

Doll up for prom pictures in the field

With a new beginning nearby

Her parents can’t help but wonder

Where all the time went when they see

Their daughter is a woman now

Posing perfectly amongst the blue bonnets

I was only eighteen years old yet

I can see them clear as day

I still see that pink perennial

With its vibrant blooming petals

That my best friend gave to me

Before I graduated college

From the garden near the science building

We walked past the graduation court

Knowing what was about to come next

The last time we saw each other

Dressed in our black gowns and covered

In colored cords and stoles

The pink perennials never left

I was only twenty-two years old yet

I can see them clear as day

I only wish my memory of yesterday

Remained so clear

by Sonia Charales

Scorched Eyes

You can’t poison a tongue

That has already licked thorns

With her head dragged

Through a thicket of rose bushes

Eyes scraped from the leaves

Blush pink petals left messed in her hair

Her crown bleeds yet never falls

A voice tells her to appreciate the flowers

Rather than to speak ungratefully

Questioning how she cannot see

The bright side of this sight

As she picks off the thorns from her temples

Her eyes already witnessed horror

Of streets being set fire fueled by laughter

Cackles from those who set flames

While those who supposed to protect

Run around like headless chickens

As homes burn on the street

She remembers the poor girl

Who was slapped for crying over

Her missing rag doll

The one her grandmother made

She wonders how anyone could smile

Upon the sight of ashes

She will no longer be surprised yet

She will always be shocked

by Sonia Charales

Hot tongue

It’s the baby brown glitter eyes for me that shine as Frank O’Hara recites another love torn poetry on the tape/ On my wall , there’s a picture of you smiling, the one I clicked when I told you I love the rush , motorcycles and leather jacketed guys/ you thought I was saying the truth/ some days I wish I was/ I would rather love someone like you/ the ones who are quiet and not quiet/ the ones who give their all, pining like a teenage baby, watching from afar because they think they aren’t enough to drop by and say hi/ they are the ones, the crazy ones in my dictionary, my match on earth or some other celestial place, the ones who look very much like you/ who would rather watch Ladybird with me in bed than get drunk on whiskeys just because they can/ the ones who'll suffer in their loneliness, let the anguish run wild in their journals and surrender their fantasy of being the one for Fiona Apple like girls/ only to see them smile from afar/ but let’s be honest, I probably won’t even speak without feeling you around me/ I’m dramatic like that and too far gone for guys like you/ or just you/ the 16 year old me has yet to realise that/ as O'Hara says, i would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world/ I think that says a lot about how far my obsession goes for slow love/ for you/ where I let go of what all others look for/ I'd rather live in a broken chair at home with you than the motel bars that never have the quiet ones gazing from the afar

by Divisha Chaudhry

to the cleaning lady at benito juárez international airport

i had a grandmother who loved me once / maybe / i am searching for her everywhere / even before a flight / back home / to the house she died in / she is the ghost / i look for in the living / in your ginger coils / i see her white ones / the same plastic bucket / you hold aloft / to avoid the splash / sloshing its fullness / to the floor / your mop with thick, long locks / like melting snow & mud / & heavy as a head of hair / even the earrings / gold hooks hanging / from the lobes of your ears / remind me of her jewelry box / how she beckoned me / to her bedroom / every birthday / to gift a ring or necklace / from its velvet gums / i wore each one once / then lost them / or covered the gemstones in dust / i kept my mouth shut / even when my mother asked / looking up / i ask my father to translate / the spanish words threaded in white / down your spine / where it says / cleanliness is an act of discipline / (see: code of behavior / regiment / direction) / es una expresa de amor y respectó / (see: esteem / regard / admire) / i swallow it / & think of how i used to be loved / am i still grandmother’ed / if i only have one? / i want to believe it / rather than an act of servitude / of hurting heels / & bended back / eyes lowering when another / enters a room / perhaps it is neither / perhaps it is both / but if this is love / i picture your heart in the soap / a beating, bloody thing / cradled by bubbles & suds / your lungs sitting / on the spot you just mopped / shoe prints already appearing / a stand-in yellow sign calling cuidado / a warning both tender & sharp / like a soft slap on the wrist / how my grandmother growled it / when she saw me / running / sock-slipping on the floor in the dark / you smell like sundays at our house / like all of mexico / disinfectant & bleach / purple-bottled fabuloso foam / diluted with water / & thrown in buckets to the street / you come closer / smile with eyes / i can’t remember the color of / but i notice you’ve become blonde / in this light / she had the same hair once / & scoliosis from bending over too much / being the last to sit down / to eat / to pray / i don’t want to be a woman / always looking down at her feet / i wish i’d asked for your name / please / i hope you go home early today / treat yourself to a warm bath / scented with oils & fruit / soak your hips in the water / return to a spouse / willing to massage / the meat of your feet / i wish i’d told her so / before she left me / moving through the world mourning / & seeing the dead in every emptiness / maybe / i’m trying / to clean her out of me / free my mind of her memories / even though she’s made my heart a home / come / scrub away at this bruise / the aching / the burning / the blue.

by Sofía Aguilar

Pippa, I'm Disintegrating

Pippa, I’m disintegrating

you say to me,

I’m not the way I used to be,

Not slightly.

And all I can see is people

who flash their life,

Whilst I can barely walk here, melting under

the molten yolk of the summer light.

The slathers of your cheeks shiver as you speak,

And you find it hard to get the words out,

It’s a squeak,

And all the seagulls you spend your time

shouting at,

I wish I didn’t bother getting worried,

I’m bad at that.

You call me and you call me all the time,

Whilst you forget I’m sitting upstairs on the telephone line,

But I don’t mind that the beads of your memory

have disintegrated completely,

Just being here with you is a lovely eternity.

by Pippa Hill

she has many names

maybe sultanahmet is the brain

where the memories of the old city live

maybe the bosphorus is the veins

maybe beyoğlu is the heart

beyoğlu broke and the city cried

the bridges started to collapse around me

by Gamze Şanlı