by Elsa CunningtonHer blinding beauty captured them,
And they orbited her, Some up close, some from afar Mercury, Venus, Earth then Mars Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, neptune and little Pluto With her ever changing temperature, Mercury only had eyes for the Sun Venus and her twin, Earth, were struck too But Earth was loved by the Moon who never seemed to be seen There was Mars too, smaller than Earth, but just as temperate Cloudy Jupiter too, but loved by seventy nine others, All affecting one another Eccentric Saturn, keeping her distance And the blue siblings, Uranus only a little bolder than Neptune Timid Pluto, far out, hiding behind the others, but still orbiting her beauty. Yet she, the Sun, the center of it all, Orbits another. She does not see the plants the way they see her, She only has eyes for her Galaxy. The galaxy does not see her, She is just one of the thousands of stars, All orbiting the center of our galaxy. So here we all are, stuck looking in the other direction Not seeing the one who loves us, but the one we cannot have.
0 Comments
by Mikaela WongI paint to learn the practice of seeing people’s faces. Every pimple, every pore; their faces are stories, their expressions play symphonies or dystonia-filled scores. On one, weary scars mar the fleshy lobe of their left ear.
“I found a piercing gun off Shien,” they tell me. Another carries around a plexiglass orb where their right eye used to be. “I also have a slingshot with me, always. Just in case.” So many, an air of mystery. So many, filled with the potential for forgotten history. How many more will have to whittle their tongues down to stubs and offer up their wine-red blood, a sacrifice to survive time’s tides? They will all. All but you. You, with your restless feet, itching to roam fields unknown. You, with your soul of gold, all too eager to chip off chunks, trade pieces for promises of unclaimed fame. You, with your mind of oyster shells, which every day, layer by layer, sharpens stronger into steel. Because, I’ve seen you (well, your spirit). And I know you. Not well, but enough to remember you by. When we eventually all sink back into the sea, at least you can take solace in the fact that I, someone as forgettable as you, thought of you. Once. And I still do. By Angel YeThe sea, a living being
With every thrum of a wave pulsing another heaving breath Gleaming sunbeams dancing off edges of ripples As clear as the sky above me today, blue. I can feel the thrum of bones, stirring. Every breath, as if it’s simply sleeping And so I ask the wandering sea beyond me: Kind sir, are you sleeping? What are you? But the only reply was the gentle hum of the oceans breaths rippling beyond the soles of my worn down shoes. Echo of ecliptic waves: hush of a warm summer sky. by Bill WangAs I slowly march my Pawn towards black,
My opponent fights on, he does not see There’s no way he can survive my attack. I move my Bishop in position to sac1, He ignores me, he takes no heed, As I slowly march my Pawn towards black Now he realizes, he’s moving his pieces back But he’s too panicked, he’s missed the move that was key. There’s no way he can survive my attack. It’s too late now, his position is beginning to crack. The lines are wide open, and his King is trying to flee, As I slowly march my Pawn towards black. Finally its over: his pawns are in a stack2, All the pieces are hanging – his Rook is free! There’s no way he can survive my attack. The game is done, his King is on the rack. He has no choice but to surrender to me. As I slowly march my Pawn towards black, There’s no way he can survive my attack. 1 Sac: chess slang for sacrifice 2 In chess, “stacked pawns” refers to two pawns on the same “file” (column). There are generally regarded as a weakness, and players try and avoid them by Ellie McCulloughyou find stillness in the space between
the quarter note and rest fingers whispering along your collarbone where euterpe weaves a silky crescendo; lips trembling because ares laughs at the impermanence of peace and somewhere you will find a / key change / the gods ask to play another game and trick you into saying yes perhaps eurydice has tired of waiting and savours the ambrosia in your tears your sadness tastes sweet on her tongue and melancholy sings brighter in the past darling, you make oizys proud covering your heart in feathers in the hope it will become a dove and fly elsewhere and maybe you’ll be free from the burden of / feeling / it wouldn’t be elysium without your chests rising and falling in tandem her head nestled in the crook of your neck but you know she’s headed to hades she may be mortal but you’re sure ichor is what makes her pulse so strong beating sharp through your intertwined fingers; and in your dreams morpheus appears and they take on her form a deity flickering under human flesh although she has always been your muse and somewhere you realize mnemosyne banished her tenth who fell here, inside your arms, a battle of rosemary and cinnamon dusting her skin like a memory to the gods, a mortal muse must be a wretched curse but to you, oh, to you, she is a / blessing / by Emma MiaoTW: gun violence
We open at sunrise. The stage is set under flashing lights. A theatre where the convict always dies. The intercom buzzes, spastic: surrender & you’re lurching within the construct, flesh bruised by the white bars. Soon, the hourglass will crack. Patiently, I teeth this cardboard street. On cue, I explode into one million tremolos. I burn the walls with my fingertips. I raid the Capitol. The puppets flail on their axes, their strings caught in the machinery. They jerk, spitting out rubber bullets and paint bullets and real bullets and splaying open their wooden mouths. It starts to snow. My eyes burn, because it is ash. Applause flutters through the darkened room. On the stage, the bones are all the same colour. The crowd calls: Give us more by Emma MiaoAt night, the Yangtze floods my veins with gold.
I goosebump the rain-stained balcony, white lines snaking up my tendrilled feet. White: the faint pattern on my belly, digging into me, through me. But I don’t know this yet: only know Mother calling from inside, her red hand beckoning. I know what she’d do. Fingerprint my eyes, flux herb water down my throat. Every night the house a museum & my body on display like the rabbit, eye-locked with the crown of the knife. Gleaming in the moonlight. The rabbit, like me, is soft, docile, ivory fur glossy, her legs bounding into the cable-bed snare. At dinner, Father clatters her bones on the glass table. Watches me knife red meat with streaked teeth. He smiles. My belly, gibbous, because I am a good daughter: my eyes cast in deference, my cheek red & streaked. I am a good daughter to suckle sweat, drudge in the trefoiled frost. The fate line on my palm nicked with scars. Good daughters spoon silence into their mouths, so I skewer the rabbit: chew, swallow. The lamp beside my bed is stained with Father’s eyes. The wallpaper a shredded maroon. But now: silence. The rain turned gold. I stick out my tongue. The flecks taste like rabbits. Mother, inaudible. I close my eyes, picture a gold sky. Give me your hands and I will bury them. Give me a river and I will swallow it whole. Give me a mirror and I will become the predator. We are the vessels of so many lies. |