Issue 24

谁知盘中餐

粒粒皆辛苦

–李绅

there’s an old poem every Chinese kid was made to memorize in school; it goes, every grain of rice is obtained with hardship; eat well the food God gave you. the other Chinese girls are size twos and zeros and wear brandy melville; i wonder if they listened.

I never wear low-waisted shorts because the sides of my stomach protrude like a swollen lip; aren’t those pants too tight for you, he says; eyes squinted like a hunter eyeing its prey; he almost steps forward. I almost step back.

I learned to look at my body the way my sister looked at her salad before pushing it to the side of her plate. my body was not my home, not the chafing of thighs or the way my chin sank into my neck when I smiled; if I could pinch off my skin like wet sand maybe I could mold myself into the swimsuit I bought two months ago.

you look just like your mother; words I never wanted to hear; he laughed at her and she began eating cabbage soup for breakfast and lunch and dinner, put three bowls of rice on the table instead of four. she doesn’t say grace anymore.

I cried at dinnertime and hid my tears in the broth of la mian; my grandmother slid a spoon across the table and it sputtered to a stop in front of me. dark except for the swinging lightbulb casting shadows in circles around the small wooden table.

nothing in our house goes into the trash before it goes into a plastic container for tomorrow’s lunch.

too much rice travels to your hips and your thighs; fried food makes your skin dry like parchment; no snacks no juice no fat remember press downwards on your uvula; whatever happened to li li jie xin ku?

I lost six pounds and the scale became my altar.

are those your sister’s shorts, he says, why does your ass stick out like that; i think, why are you looking at my ass why are you looking at my ass why are you looking at my ass why are you looking at my ass why are you looking

if our bodies are temples why are they defiled by men who think they are gods.

Lauren is a Singaporean writer currently residing in Bethesda, MD. She attended the University of Iowa International Program’s Between the Lines workshop, and is an editor for the MoCo Student newspaper. She can be found most often in the auditorium lighting booth, where she serves as Whitman Drama’s lighting director.

Magic is
Wet clothes sticking to skin
Sinking boots, mud crawling in
Ink running through tangled footpaths
Scrambled grid references
Clouds dripping into fog
Draping over fences
Aching legs, blistered body
Kendal Mint Cake crumbs
Wind whipped cheeks
Sleet slithering through waterproofs
Blue lips and fingertips
Splashes of colour in the grey eclipse

Then turning the corner
To stumble upon sunflower fields
Stretching towards a horizon
Streaked with Love-in-a Mist blue

Izzy Searle is a neurodivergent poet from Sussex. Her writing is featured on the International Network of Italian Theatre and she has a poetry anthology in the process of publication. In her spare time, Izzy loves to hike and volunteer at Scouts.

but for now, let the stormy earth take charge of the moment.

In my room, there are silhouettes of things I’m trying to live for–

my room is the only place I act not as a fugitive in this country.

I’ve taught my legs how to rebel against the soil of the land.

/how do you picture yourself happy in a country like this?/

My body is morphing into a road stretched across this country

Some parts of me scamper towards the North– the abattoir

Where the fates of over 200 girls were buried before vanishing.

Another part of me is sailing across the ocean, seeking refuge

From lands innocent of my origin.         I don’t want to believe

that our mothers deserve the blame.   Is it nothing to call love

when a mother burns out of comfort just to give her child life, but

a country wring out the soul of the child from his body? My body is telegraphing

Seeking asylum in the ruins of this country. I’m still longing for home.

A castle of hope is sinking inside of me. I wish there will be a time

when nothing will know my name or my origin. I’m claustrophobic.

If I ever see God in my dream, I think I’m damn sure of what to ask him.

Abioye Samuel Akorede is a Nigerian poet & an undergraduate student of the University of Jos, Nigeria. His works have appeared on Literary Platforms such as Kalahari Review, Parousia, Sparrow’s Trombone, Praxis Magazine, Ice Floe Mag, The Quills Journal, EroGospel, and so on. In 2020, Abioye’s poem ‘RUNNING OUT OF THE MIRROR’ was longlisted for the Nigerian Students Poetry Prize (NSPP). His poem “A BOY, HIS GOD, AND A COUNTRY” was Longlisted among the TOP 20 of The Nigeria Students Poetry Prize in 2021.

i.   I remember my sister once found robin eggs in the post-box. She tells me they were bluer than a shipwreck, but when I ask her what happened to them, she says she doesn’t remember.
My father breaks nests in our house every week. He once threw a birds’ eggs down our fifth storey balcony. I think his hands reek of the daughters he has killed before they were even born.

ii.   I have a photo album from which I cut out pictures to stick on my wall. They flutter furiously to the wind and refuse to be held down by the tape I attach. Yesterday, I cried for an hour trying to find more tape, and maybe it’s the universe trying to tell me that no tape could hold back a broken past. That it’s time to let go. Maybe I’m a dead bird waiting to sink into the graves of the sky.

iii.   My mother likes to stand at the edge of the balcony at exactly 10:47 p.m. and feel the breeze brush against her skin. She says it feels like her dead father giving her a hug, but sometimes she stands on her toes and tips over a little too much. Then, in her eyes, I see a world pulsing. Maybe she doesn’t do that to hug her father. Maybe she wants to see him. Maybe she stands at the edge of the balcony every night at 10:47 p.m. because she likes to watch the ground murmur the names of all the dead birds whose ashes stain this family’s hands.

iv.   My heart remembers too much. It throbs and searches for names of dead lovers on everything it sees. My heart remembers too much and though I forgive the razor, I forgive my hands, I forgive those who saw in me a shipwreck and watched me drown, and I forgive the birds that knock on my ribs, asking to be let out saying—please? Just tonight? Let me be free?I forgive them but my heart is cruel. It doesn’t forget. My heart still remembers the hurt.

v.   Sometimes, I am threatened by the abilities of others. I look at my hands and see a lost soul. I watch others standing at the peak, while I am still trying to drag my feet. I’m still searching for reasons to not fall.
I’m still lying on the ground; dirt seeping into my hair and I am watching the birds in the sky. They tell me it’s time I let go of this heavy pretence of sorrow and do something. Something. Anything. It’s time I bleed meaning into this life, they say. And in the blink of an eye, the birds aren’t dead anymore.

Srina Bose is a high school student based in New Delhi, India. She has previously had her work published in “The Ice Lolly Review”, and “Cathartic Literary magazine.” She has also published her own collection of poetry titled— “Roses In My Mind”, which is commercially available.
You can find her poetry blog on Instagram at @teardrops_of_ink