Poetry

listen. at the end of the day, you are allowed
to call yourself beautiful.   to acknowledge
the           ache.                                 darling,
take your roving eyes & bring the food to
your lips.     tribute   this body.        although
it is  not always yours, render it loved.
pretend    to  know   it like a   child,   a saint.
we, you & i, make the mind a maze of
pathways             leading           back    to
not         enough. nothing will ever be the
way you want it.  someday, we’ll leave  this
hell for good.  each   moment      another
agony.     love, pick up the spoon. the
chopsticks & bowl.  let     your    demons
rest.    today, you   will be all that i cannot.
open the windows, let in the light. slice
pieces of fruit. chunks of cake.  savor the
tang,   the            sting       of           freedom.

 

Ivi Hua is an Asian-American writer, dreamer, and poet. A Best of the Net nominee, her work is published or forthcoming in Juven, [sub]liminal, and the Eunoia Review among others. In the summer of 2022, she attended the Adroit Journal’s Summer Mentorship as a Poetry mentee. You can find her @livia.writes.stories on Instagram.

an instant biscuits package found at the very back of a failing refrigerator / eyelashes on my baby’s cheek that I swipe off, and hand to him to make a wish / the h sound the letter x makes in Spanish / the beauty mark underneath my ear / enchiladas topped with mole, queso fresco, and sour cream / lopsided, ugly chocolate cupcakes that my brothers devour in a minute / the social studies PowerPoints kids like me saw, when we didn’t make it into the Academically Gifted program / the tear stains on the poetry book I first saw myself in / the banda, cumbia and reggaeton blasting from my phone / the smile on my babies’ faces when I surprise them with hot cocoa and pan de dulce after reprimanding them / Corona bottles littering the house after a party / the worn out picture my uncle carries of his boys that he shows to everyone whenever he can / my papi’s neon construction vest / my grandma’s passed down chocoflan recipe / the second and third generations, that hold onto our roots as tightly as possible / the sandy, rocky trail of pulgas / the mamalonas driven without a license / the medallas of la Virgen de Guadalupe girls wear around their necks / my people, mi gente, with their gorgeous, bronze hands, and gentle accents

 

Haile Espin is a Mexican-American writer from NC. Her work has been published in The Louisville Review’s 2022 Spring Edition, Apricity Magazine, Valiant Scribe Literary Journal and elsewhere.

 

I try to explain what you’re like and I do it the way Proust
describes rain: musical, innumerable, universal. Everything is reminiscent of you.
A face in each moving car. A strand of hair in every dish. A rustling of leaves
Or wings or pages turning. A footstep on the winding road, which is either coming or going.
I have forgotten which already. Lately, I’m always in between—you and the next thought
of you. In the morning, before my feet touch the floor my mind reaches for you.
In the night, you are the charm of arms, warm as the kiss of an open mouth.
Whatever is absent in me, is present in you. Whatever is intolerable about me,
is made tolerable through you. Yet, it’s strange we suffer in spite of this!
The truth is, we are only hints of dust or one hint of dust.
Who’s to say we’ll still be alive when anyone is reading or will
ever read this poem. Time grows life inside the body.
And life kills by growing time inside the body. What else is there to say?
Death like love can never be prepared for, is instant and permanent.
Everything will end and when it ends. I know where I want to be,
in love, in love, in love…

 

 

Christ Keivom (he/him), is currently pursuing his master’s in English Literature from Delhi University. His work has previously appeared in Novus Literary Arts Journal, Mulberry Literary, Monograph Mag, Write now lit, The Chakkar, Farside Review, Spotlong Review, Agapanthus Collective, and Native Skin to name a few.

 

We thought we would die if the water
swallowed us. We preferred to fight
many-headed monsters at daybreak
than spiral to the coral-veined heart
of our fears.

We thought we would die. Then we grew
gills. Our ship broke down and we let it
let water waltz with our shadows,
let schools of fish ripple our schools
of thought.

I met Scylla and I kissed her; my scars
fluttered open, and I could see
out of them.

 

 

 

Elsa H. Lyons is a young writer, dancer, and student of the earth. Her work has been recognized by the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers. She lives in the city and the country, in the world and in herself, and in the spaces in between.

If only I could burn the echo to kill the
evidence of sound. I mean, my mother’s

voice over the phone: I was admitted to
the hospital. I didn’t want to tell you.

As if delay would not break me still. As if
it would separate venom from sting, leaving

only the spider’s sharp bore.

I know exactly what she meant, why she
didn’t tell me about the illness. The logic:

look, son, I am alive. Do not worry about me.

But I am stubborn in my compassion, so, of
course, I worried. Feverish all week, I was

burdened by the gravity of powerlessness.
It would weigh my bruised heart, and then

outweigh it.

Despite all of its glory, the body’s ability will,
in the end, fail us. Accepting this truth may

or may not make a difference.

In times like these, the truth troubles me.
I have no agency to deliver the people I love.

My volition ends with the body’s limit.

I, physician of nothing. No antidote to erase
the wound. If I could, I would

erase the phone call, peel back
my mother’s voice reporting her illness,

peel back the illness till it forgets her body,
origami the wound for its paper-boat escape.

Indeed, I could build a house
full of conditions. But in the end, everything

crumbles to the reality of the body.
Look at my hands: hands.

No alchemy in the veins to repair. No blood
pure enough to wash clean affliction.

Lead me to a river that cleanses every plague.
A sea to reanimate the cell’s grey wilt.

Where are you?

O river. O saint of water.
Blue latitude. Wet miracle.

 

Samuel A. Adeyemi is a writer and editor from Nigeria. A Best of the Net Nominee and Pushcart Nominee, he is the winner of the Nigerian Students Poetry Prize 2021. His chapbook, Rose Ash, was selected by Kwame Dawes and Chris Abani for the New-Generation African Poets chapbook box set, 2023. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in Palette Poetry, Frontier Poetry, 580 Split, Strange Horizons, Chestnut Review, Agbowo, Isele Magazine, Brittle Paper, Jalada, and elsewhere.

The birds seem to sing the most haunting song at morning’s break
When the sun has broken on the day of burial,
When moonlight succumbs to daily repose
And life becomes awashed in solar resplendence.

When the sun has broken on the day of burial,
When the women have wailed and washed the body
And life becomes awashed in solar resplendence.
When the earth is broken and torn by darkened eyes.

When the women have wailed and washed the body
Eyes no longer descend on suffering
And life becomes awashed in solar resplendence.
Then men prostrate and utter ‘from Allah we come and must return’.

Eyes no longer descend on suffering
When sand begins to darken the burial shroud
Then men prostrate and utter ‘from Allah we come and must return’.
It is only when the ground is filled that we speak words unspoken.

 

 

A.R. Arthur (formerly A.R. Salandy) is a Black Mixed-race poet & writer who has spent most of his life in Kuwait jostling between the UK & America. Anthony’s work has been published over 240 times internationally. Anthony’s Flash Fiction was shortlisted and received an honourable mention in the 2022 The Dillydoun Flash Fiction Prize Competition. Anthony has 3 published chapbooks titled ‘The Great Northern Journey’ 2020 (Lazy Adventurer Publishing) & ‘Vultures’ 2021 (Roaring Junior Press) as well as a novel ‘The Sands of Change’ 2021 (Alien Buddha Press). Anthony’s Chapbook ‘Half Bred’ was the Winner of the 2021 ‘The Poetry Question’ Chapbook contest. Anthony is the EIC of Fahmidan Journal/Publishing & Co, Review Editor at Full House Literary & Poetry Editor at Chestnut Review. Twitter/Instagram: @ararthurwriter  https://ararthurwriter.wordpress.com/