Molly Hill

 

all I remember of that summer
is acrid storm on tongue, and

anxiety. funny how I thought diffidence
would make me more likeable; funny how

I thought filling myself with water and
watermelon would make me more

loveable. as if bony wrists
and empty hands could catch

your eye, without breaking—or with.
funny how the snail thinks itself safe

before the light swallows it up; watch how
the anglerfish contorts itself around prey,

manipulative til the end, and feasts.
funny how I bite down on nothing.

 

Iris Yu is a Chinese-American student from Ohio. Her work is forthcoming or published in Sine Theta, The Heritage Review, and the Pulitzer Center. She is an alumna of the Sewanee Young Writers’ Conference (’19) and the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio (’20).

 

 

Say sugar. Say lamplight.
Say heartbeat. Hush. Fire.
Glass. Firelight plays across
your face, gold skittering
past what we know to be
true. The press of cheekbone
to jaw, straight bridge of
nose. All those hard lines
but soft angles. Pretend
we do not hold each other
close to remember we are
alive. Pretend when we are
together we are not turning
away from our own hidden
shadows, locked tight
beneath our bodies.
Pretend our warmth
does not seep into the cracks
of the universe, setting us
on fire. We have turned over
too many stones looking
for ourselves. There is
no place left for us
to hide. Now, we press
ourselves together just
to remember what it
feels like to be whole.
You pry me open
with your thumbs. I hold
you like the sun, the star
so fragile it lights our
world. We undo
the golden threads of
the earth until they lay in
our palms, bright streaks
of possibility.

 

Sarah Fathima Mohammed is a Muslim-American emerging writer and high schooler from the San Francisco Bay Area. She has been recognized by the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers and the National Poetry Quarterly. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Canvas Literary Journal, Rattle, Girls Right the World, The Rising Phoenix Review, Apprentice Writer, The Heritage Review, and elsewhere. When she is not writing, she serves as managing editor for The Aurora Review, reads for Polyphony Lit, and enjoys archery.

 

When did my culture become cool?
I must have missed the moment it happened
Because I was preoccupied with erasing it.

When I hear them marvel at the beauty of Indian sculpture
I remember my six-year-old self
staring in the bathroom mirror during break
because they asked why I did not have blue skin too.

When I see the line outside the trendy Indian restaurant
I remember my seven-year-old self
watching a girl spit out my lunch on the cafeteria table
and frantically wipe the turmeric off her fingers.

When they tell me foreign accents are beautiful
I remember my eight-year-old self
practicing words like “pizza” and “can’t” in the mirror
so that my “funny” accent wouldn’t accidentally escape.

When I smell the incense in their salons
I remember my nine-year-old self
sneaking into my mother’s bathroom to steal her perfume
because a boy told me I smelled like a campfire.

When I listen to them rave about Bollywood songs
I remember my ten-year-old self
hearing my parents turn off their bhajans one morning
because the neighbors were uncomfortable.

When I help them plan looks for music festivals
I remember my eleven-year-old self
pleading with my mom to take off her bindi
because all the kids were pointing at it.

When they get their “henna” done at Six Flags
I remember my twelve-year-old self
deciding not to wear sandals to school
because classmates mocked my mehndi with brown markers.

When they swoon over Priyanka Chopra’s wedding attire
I remember my thirteen-year-old self
begging my mother to take down her Facebook post
because kids were laughing at my shalwar.

When they invite me to their hot yoga classes
I remember my fourteen-year-old self
dreading mindfulness every morning
because everyone laughed at the word “namaste.”

When they praise the beauty of my language
I remember my fifteen-year-old self
snapping at my parents to speak in English on the phone
because a man in the store was glaring at them.

When they marvel at the complexity of Hinduism,
I remember my sixteen-year-old self
avoiding the stares from my classmates
because I ignored the girl who said “so what caste are you?”

My seventeen-year-old self is left confused,
Because I erased myself for them.
Why is my culture only beautiful when I’ve already lost it?

 

 

Neha Saggi is a senior at the University School of Nashville in Nashville, Tennessee. In her free time, she enjoys activism, tennis, music, and quality time with family and friends.