Tiffany Aurelia

clinging to the branch on the jambu tree
planted on his passing, where sunlight veils
his hickory wings in gilded glow. Where the
shadows bend, hesitant, like they too cannot
discern whether amongst man, myth, or mirage.

I see his face, softly wrinkled and deep lined,
on the folds of heaven-sewn feathers; on the
sparrow’s crown laced in white wisps –
whiskers of the hair that tickled my cheeks
in bedside hugs and kisses goodnight.

In silent flight, the sparrow lifts a tawny
wing — a hand beckoning reassurance — and
flutters, down onto the damp grass breathing
the scents our hands traced so long ago.
Tiptoes toward my crouching figure.

Stay, Engkong. Reteach me the odysseys
of the tricycle. Carry me upon your wings, tufted
with cloud relic, as we reassemble morning sky
jigsaws and rebuild the birdhouse once more.
Let the puzzle of lost time hold us whole.

Memory is the requiem I hear in the chime
of rustling leaves, branches stirred by the
wind, all the unsaid words between us
translated in morning song, for the air knows
how to carry what cannot be spoken.

And we listen, Engkong and I, the sparrow
nestled at the navel of my ankle as if
I am now the elder and he a child, resting
on the lap’s cradle, both beings stilled
by the tender familiarity of presence.

 

*Engkong translates to Grandfather in several Indonesian dialects.
*jambu (also known as ‘Wax Apple’) is a tropical fruit commonly found in Java.

 

Tiffany Aurelia is a South-East-Asian writer and current high school student, from the bustling city of Jakarta, Indonesia. Home to a constantly traveling mind, poetry is her vessel to give her tumultuous, wondrous thoughts a home. Outside of writing, you can find Tiffany lost in the pages of another magical realism novel or training for her next badminton match.

I am thinking of my mother
and my mother’s mother’s mother
as I stay, languid, soaking my hair in sun

I am thinking of exponential prefixes
stretching back—the greats—
as I fall for none but July skies

I am thinking of the body mine was traced from,
the slope of my nose, their echo,
as I dodge, cheat, and forget fate

I am thinking of primogeniture’s pressure
for a tan line ‘round my ring finger
as I weave a crown of violet and rose

I am thinking of being a wife
and more, the pain it brought and brings,
as I long to be all they could have been

I am thinking of daughters
and more, how they stop you in your tracks,
as I commit to moving on and on and on

 

Lauren Mills is seventeen and feels it in her bones. She enjoys pasta, rain, drawing, and tv shows about strange towns.

after midnight,
blue walls and
cold pencils on the desk;
deliberate motions to
ease the windowpane up quietly,
for fear of awakening others during this
golden
hour.
in the gentle silence,
just listen; a
keeper of
lost stories,
magic and mysticism,
nightmares and daydreams –
oceans of words,
pliant like sculpture clay,
quivering in sincerity and as
raw in beauty as
spring’s melodies. let them
tell a tale of the impossible –
underneath these
vast skies and
wishing stars,
xylophone lullabies and
young children’s tears, even
zinnia flowers can grow in winter.

 

Alice He is a rising sophomore at a boarding school in the New England area of the United States of America. She enjoys writing questionable fanfiction, daydreaming about flowers, and pondering about the trivial things in life. When she’s not typing away at her five-year-old laptop, she can most often be found sprawled on the lawn, soaking up the sunshine like a plant in need of vitamin D.

I get my words from our father
I don’t mean the one above me
He’s in the backyard burning books
To show me that he loves me

I get my courage from our mother
We need no one to acquit us
I speak the language of her brother
A lot of good it ever did us

It’s fine with me
If we disagree
But let’s not misunderstand each other

 

Jane McBride (she/her) is a senior at Columbia University studying Creative Writing and Religion. Her work has appeared in Quarto Literary Magazine.

i only sing in the sigh of the midnight and the dawn. and only in sobs.
when daylight arrives and my father has gone, i sleep into the ballad of the

mourning doves, having no one to call to me and say they survived the witching
hours. having no one at all. i read somewhere that in netherlands, if you die

and have no one to attend your funeral service, they send you a civil servant
and a poet so you won’t have to be lonely as they bury you. all the time, in my

head, i book a flight to the greener planes of amsterdam. i dream of my death
sitting through pews, immaculate and vacant of grief. no bouquet of white tulips. no

mourners in black with heads hung low. perhaps, not even a headstone. but a poem,
a string of words that have seen me through various deaths i died while living

can see me through my earthly ending, too. i thank the desolate f. starik in unwritten
blues. i tell myself that tomorrow will forgive me for all these wishes. as if the

sunrise isn’t the bleed unmade yet and already unforgiving. as if it isn’t the wound.

 

Fransivan MacKenzie is a twenty-one-year-old storyteller born and raised in the Philippines. She is the author of Out of the Woods, a chapbook of poetry and prose, and Departures, a collection of short stories. Her works also appeared in Germ Magazine, Transition Magazine, The Racket, Ice Lolly Review, Jaden Press, and more literary journals all over the globe. She is currently taking her degree in Psychology at Philippine Normal University – Manila. Find out more about her on her website: https://fransivanmackenzie.wixsite.com/my-site.

inside you, the sun feels nothing like
apricot juice dripping like blood down my wrists
at the breakfast table, regardless
of your cigarette graveyard stuffed
into a hollowed Nutella jar on the balcony, despite
your smell of stale piss split
only by pink morning mass bells
chanting wordless hymns to the sleeping city like
the rising sun worshiping shadows
onto the cobblestones, lime-sticky sugar,
red nail polish, my tongue forced backward by
your language, your dazzling midnight unable
to permeate my lightheaded daze, white days
of sun-slain concrete juxtaposed against European caffeine,
burning, burning; I still ache.

 

Rebecca Orten is a seventeen-year-old student from Vermont. Her work has been previously recognized in the Eunoia Review, Feed Magazine, the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, and the Bennington Young Writers Awards. She likes dinosaur stickers and magnolia trees.