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

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

Dear Mom

Dear Mom,
They keep me safe here
It’s not worth knowing that
They’ve chopped my hair
I look like a boy, now
But
My flesh is fragile, still
At night
The cold water freezes my nerves
Do I have a choice of not washing their dishes?
Had not my bruises remained raw,
I’d have waited to write
Their ointments are
Guarded by grandeur
Even when my blood
Shrieks out of my skin
Even after all,
They keep me safe here

by Timsal Fatima

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

Making Up With the Sun

We need to make up with the sun,

Did I do something wrong?

When we talk about the daylight hours that we are robbed of

on our commute home

Is that why I feel so alone?

The coloured houses share in my sympathy.

They look back at me

They know how I want to go so desperately

To see them

To be filled with the same energy

When life is in grayscale

I come back in Picasso’s colour

(Sharp yet soft

A blend of sorts)

Bright and lovely.

Paintings and you always go together.

Merging like oil paints in the caveats of my memory

How I want to be there so desperately

On top of the molar hills of sickly-sweet greenery

How life felt like a 1920’s Weimar movie

A golden era

I think, as I walk back from the station.

Unable to mention how I feel.

Lips tightened; sealed.

Just like your grasp

Loosely tight

Supposedly comforting in the speckled evening light.

Where was I?

Back to this conversation which reminds me of you.

How I predict that you would agree

That the phrase sounds interesting

‘Making up with the sun’

Making up with you

How desperately I wish things didn’t end

When they had just begun.

by Pippa Hill

Recuperación

Do keep in mind,

you will never get to speak about

what you burned into me.

Like a spell, when you

cry out my name,

It will scorch your tongue.

and I will hear it.

I made it painfully clear

that I no longer wanted

to let you invade my skin.

The darkness you left inside me,

whispers softly in my head,

begging me to answer your call.

I will never wander so willingly

into your poisoned traps again.

And I vow never to let your eyes

fall on my face.

Remember when you breathe,

it’s because it’s my air you stole.

Yet, notice after everything you’ve done,

how effortlessly I move.

As if,

you were never there.

Slip back and hide into that

night when you tried to ruin me.

The shame will never hold me back.

And forever you will

only get silence from me.

by Christiane Williams-Vigil

The Maestro's Whims

Let’s just be friends instead, we said

As if we might simply

Pause our dance–

Before the strings could swell

And the lights were dimmed

(After which time we’d be too far in

To stop)

And we’d be stuck with each other.

Like all of them.

Two more struck by the Maestro’s whims.

by Navi