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2:52 p.m.
Outside, the fog hides everything. It fills up the neighbors’ yards, turning laundry sour with mold. Out of the breath-stained windows of my uninsulated apartment, a fog-shaped hole reminds me of nothing. No feathered tree-fingers, pointing towards the sunset. No birds swooping for pieces of freeze-dried berries on the grass. Until the wind changes, the fog reveals only absence. Inside, I do what I can to distract myself: kettle on, Costco TV playing The Little Mermaid (1989). All of the household blankets, half mine and half Alder’s, cluster around me in a fuzzy heap. I’m eating Grape Nuts because they remind me of Mara (even though they taste like ground-up toenails), because she cares about her digestion the way a normal person might care about their pet Maltese. Mara is one of those people you feel the need to explain to people but never can. With Mara, almost everything is a bit. Even gynecology appointments, art school, student debt, inevitably becoming a high school teacher. Grape nuts. It’s all something to laugh about. Mm. Time for my daily sand, she said every morning back in the dorms. It took me two years to realize she just liked the flavor. On the TV, the daughters of Triton swirl around a mermaid-sized clam shell. Its lips part to reveal an empty, blue cushion—no Ariel. I fumble with the edge of a seafoam-colored throw, waiting for Mara to call me. Artist's Description:
I aimed to create a powerful presence in the woman's direct gaze, demanding attention and challenging the viewer. I opted for bold strokes and a mosaic of pink shades to emphasize that qualities often considered soft or vulnerable are, in reality, wellsprings of strength. Furthermore, the use of bright, unapologetic pink was a deliberate choice to subvert traditional gendered associations and to reclaim the color as a symbol of empowerment and defiance. The textured layers of paint, applied with a dynamic and almost aggressive technique, mirror the turbulent journey of the women's rights movement, the collective demand for equality and the refusal to be silenced by women. Be gentler still, unquiet sea; again she
sees her city days. She only ever saves what memories are not too heavy to carry. The pigeons want to know is she happy or does she ache? How many of her days is she still in the unquiet sea? Just buy the ticket overseas already; forsake those days on planes and the ache of some lady saying, "that carry-on looks heavy; Ruchi held out a delicate arm. Blood trickled in wispy veins down her soft skin, dripped onto her
torn blue sari. "Meri jaan [my love]," she croaked. Even after two bullet wounds to the torso, her voice rang sweet as a bird. "Jao. Mujhe...mujhe bhulna mat. [Go. Don't...don't forget me.]" "Nahi! Nahi... [No! No...]" Rahul dropped to his knees. He reached for her hand, but it had already fallen, limp, to the dirt floor. For one tranquil moment, he froze, stared down at Ruchi's trembling red lips as they let out a final breath. Then he crumpled into himself, pressed his forehead to her limp shoulder and sobbed. Mournful sitar1music accompanied Rahul's cries. Each pluck of the strings intensified his sorrow. Ruchi and her lover shrunk into the distance, revealing the abandoned shed and the bodies strewn around it, until everything faded to a foggy white. Maithili fished for a tissue on her crowded desk. She wiped salty tears from her face and blew the last two hours' worth of sniffles out her nose. Damn it, she thought, If the king hadn't pulled the ridiculous ploy of sending his minions to capture her instead of doing it himself, Rahul might have been in her place. She sighed and cracked her back, stretching her arms until her fingertips grazed the rough ceiling. It was cold and damp as a block of ice, and she recoiled, rubbing her hand vigorously on her sweatshirt. New Jersey winters really sucked. And so did Rahul. The king was way hotter. She would watch old Indian films more often if the morally gray male lead got the girl and if the love interests didn't look twenty years older. I hold my guilt between my teeth like I’m at the dentist. / It drills deep into me / She tells me to open wide, but I bite down. / For when I speak it becomes sanguinary / When they take x-rays, they say my jaw is too
“I heard she ran off with that boyfriend of hers,” I overheard from Ms. Avery as I tried to
get lost in the crowd. “You bet,” she said in response to some mumbling from Mrs. Jorge, “heard it from Jim Francois’ dad.” “Poor Jim,” Mrs. Jorge shook her head. “That boy is good for this town; too good to be have been pining over a girl like that.” “Now that she’s left maybe he’ll get his priorities straight.” I lost the conversation as others filled in the growing space between us; their words overtaken by the hundred others speaking around me. From above, the crowd must have looked like a flock of starlings. There were groups of people talking among themselves, but no group lasted more than ten or fifteen minutes before merging and morphing with a new group and eventually splitting into new circles of gossip. The movement was sustained by the need for everyone to make sure that everyone else knew they were there; lots of big waves across the crowd and “Oh, I just knew I’d find you here!” I finally found Cheryl; a stationary point amid the ever-flowing crowd. She was wearing an old pair of ripped jeans; they could have started blue or black but only she would ever know. Now, they were grey-white and nearing shapelessness. Despite the heat, she had on a thick black hoodie. There was a hole in the shoulder where she had ripped off whatever branding the sweater had. She stood out from the others in the crowd, if not for her clothes, then for her porcelain skin. Everyone else was varying shades of orange or brown, brought on by the dry August sun. I walked up to her without saying a word and gave her a reassuring squeeze on her forearm. She responded by nudging her shoulder into my chest. please tell me what kind of woman
you are looking for. varnish over my body in cold storage, let me suck milk from a ribcage. treading water is fine until a bloated pomegranate needs tending. I could grow plump on horse meat or an allowance of oysters. my passport is a fetal bull. crowning, I offer you memories of apron, horseradish, razor blade, the price is ambivalent to me. my name is not an animal’s head, a cup bearing black tar, a harvest of mink stoles. I would be an intimate citizen, a moonless pursuit, an absolute sculpture. When I was raised, born of the earth
blood-soaked in toil and mirth because Mother demanded blood for life and from which I was raised blood of frozen white, that melts in the spring sun water, blood, for the life of me the death of me Happy, fatal, sorrow-filled spring Those freakish curling redwoods- spiking up from the earth bloody with rainwater dew Now my flowers flecks are stained if the Gods bore me pure; I would retain my whiteness of spring-melted blood, feminine bed sheets soaked into Mother Earth My Father the Sun raised me unclean, and red strained Flowering pink She fed on me; I fed on her.
It was a Queer feeling, Falling. I tasted the fruit, and i choked. Is this how Adam met Eve? Mother orders a martini. It’s her third, but the flight attendant doesn’t know that. Before we
boarded the plane, she downed two in the gaudy airport bar. She crushes the olive between her teeth, which she never does because she hates olives. So, because she’s eating it, I know what that means. I tap the back of her free hand. “Rome wasn’t built in a day.” She’s dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “I’m sure those builders needed a drink every now and again.” Around us, everyone is settled in. The engines’ constant low humming is the only sound. I have the aisle seat, so I can see the bored, empty faces of the other passengers; some read, some type away on laptop keyboards, and some have headphones in while a film plays on the screens fixed into the back of the seats. A few just enjoy the view out the window. It bothers me how Mother always wants the window seat, but never looks out of it. What a waste. I crane my neck to see over her clumsy hands—the thin layer of clouds veiling some rural part of southern Ireland, the sun hanging above us like an ornament, the horizon slicing through the haze. While I’m focused on the view outside, Mother orders another martini. “Less ice this time,” she tells the flight attendant, who obliges with a curt nod. I give Mother a look. She returns it, and for a moment we’re just staring at each other. “Oh, my god, Millie. I’m not getting sloshed. Just a couple drinks. Why are you always on my back?” Trigger Warning: eating disorders
i can feel myself balancing on a ledge, trying not to slip back into who i once was, but the pull of it is almost too much to resist. if i’m not careful, it’ll drag me four stories to the ground, killing me upon impact. i feel it in the morning when the cold water hits my empty stomach. on the days when i open my mother’s sewing box to hem a skirt that once was too small and see a tape measure. when i see walk around the grocery store and see a scale, everything in me longing to step on it and finally know the magic number that could make or break my day. my brain says life would be easier if i was starving, and sometimes i think it’s right. lowly
lonely low-key i miss the old me a girl more carefree less ugly sweet like honey no filter off-kilter please don’t kill her she’s pure, clean serene, sleeping the sleep of a seemingly innocent dream girl don’t scream In this version of history, Marge never went to college / Marge went to college briefly / Marge went to an all-girls college in the Roaring 1920’s / in pre-revolution Iran / in 2022 Afghanistan / in 2005 Harvard, when the school’s President attributed underrepresentation of women in science to:
Controversy arose
when Marge wore pants / rode a bike / drove a car / played baseball / practiced medicine / Marge was jailed / sent to an asylum for reading too much and managing her own finances / Marge was rich and White / Marge was poor and White / Marge was rich and Latina / Jason ambled up the trail with his brother Marc. While Marc led the way, Jason lagged behind.
With each step, his boots squeaked on the damp spring grass. Windflowers and sprouting ferns encircled him with trees that had begun to bud, casting dappled morning sunlight through the forest canopy. The air was cool and crisp. A slight breeze ruffled his hair, carrying the freshness of blooming flowers. It whispered tranquility to his soul. Jason closed his eyes and took a deep breath, savoring the freshness that filled his lungs. I can’t believe it’s been so long, Jason thought as his childhood memory of walking on this trail with his siblings struck him. “Come on! We don’t have all day!” Marc hollered, looking back at him. “Would you cut me some slack? I’m doing my best,” Jason said. Marc chuckled as he watched Jason struggling to keep up. “Looks like you gotta stay a few more days to let the country air detox your body.” “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t.” Jason huffed. “There’s a couple dozen clients waiting for me back in the city, and I’m the only one who can—” “Please, don’t start with your banker stuff again. Can’t you take just one week off… for old time’s sake?” for Maddie
You chiffon wrap, you frayed swatch of Marigold and mustard fabric, how you Billowed like a ghost trail behind me as I dashed across The backyard, pretending you were Flaxen waves sprouting from my crown. My four-year-old mouth refused to eat Anything other than the wispy tale of Rapunzel. A fairy, I carried on my imaginary daydreams Of boar hair bristles smoothing my long locks, each stroke counting down the days Until my trips to the barber would come less. But my sister Wasn’t a witch nor was I a pregnant Woman in this story. All I craved was the long hair I was denied. My mom always told me: Fake it till you make it but I was naked in my little boy haircut. All I could rely on was the Eidolon I created for myself. So from my sister’s closet Shelf, I took you, yellow scarf, golden tulle, and wrapped what little Semblance of belief in my gender I could suspend during play hour. “Congratulations.”
That’s what they said. We celebrated the fact that, every month, I now have to stare at scarlet drops running down the bowl. They look at me differently when I walk into class, or down the street... everywhere really, tragically. I won’t lie and say I enjoy their plaudits even though that’s what they think is true. The way they examine me, makes me uncomfortable. I feel the need to hide for fear I will be snatched up, so they can fulfill their desire to get an even closer look and uncover everything I want to keep to myself and protect. Trigger warning: homophobia
late-evening february I am blooming passionately and feared as the shunned on their lonesome patios I am modeling out-of-season christmas socks I am chugging a glass of whole milk and dropping dry cereal in the snow I am dreaming -- —glaring towards to setting sun with unshaded blue eyes of the women forming into wives under the arms of their ballroom men under the banners: last high-school dance under the mistletoe: he collects her lips under the living room ceiling fan: fifty-second anniversary where I sit: watching it on the big screen I am ripping my romance movie ticket into scraps I am dreaming -- —I want to become my father’s daughter he’d carry my arm down the aisle meet my husband when we reach the end clapping for our lives prisoned together (unashamed in this dream: we father and daughter dance) I am dreaming-- —your red-chipped nail polish still holding my shaking hand of waiting at the aisle end turning women in gowns What a Rhinestone Means to Me— Duplex
After Jericho Brown My glamor is my counterculture Holding an x and y, I defy the suit and tie. To my birth, I am not tied But I cinch my waist with a sash of choice. Rhinestones over suede is a choice To persuade a toast in a champagne glass. “To your womanhood,” cheers my mirror’s glass For she knows how hard I fought for my pearls. From one synapse, She grew like a pearl After a grain of estrogen slipped through my lips. When I line my eyes and paint my lips I dot the “i” and cross the “t” in “authentic.” Watch the queen dressed in authenticity because Her glamor is her counterculture. The green dress is stuffed in the back of my closet,
A sign of femininity long ignored. The twine holding the bag together is fraying. The tag is smudged but I know what it says: For graduation. Love, Mom. The green dress laughed at me then. It still does now. A witch’s cackle, a voice painfully familiar. A girl your size? Lipstick on a pig. Every attempt at dressing up was ridiculed. Every nice outfit was replaced by jeans and a tee shirt. The same ones I wore to my graduation party. Black jeans, black shirt, black socks, and dirty Converse. Camouflage to blend into the shadows. To disappear from sight. My sister’s hair, honeyed from the hair salon, fell between us. The tips of it brushed the
menu we shared. We sat side by side since the booths were comically huge, like everything else at The Cheesecake Factory in Pasadena. I almost tucked her hair behind her ear, my older-sister instincts rearing up even though we weren’t kids anymore and hadn’t been close for years. Her lunch invitation hadn’t been unexpected. It was the summer of 2007. I’d traveled from Florida where I was in graduate school to our home state of California to be the maid of honor in her wedding. The event was three days away and there was so much left to do. Tanning bed appointments, mani-pedis, a champagne brunch, bridesmaid dramas I’d been tasked with diffusing via flip phone, eyebrows to be waxed into thin perfect lines. After we ordered our salads, I thought we would talk about those things. Instead, she stared straight ahead out a picture window that faced onto Colorado Boulevard and roped me into helping her reconstruct the plot of One Magic Christmas. It was her favorite holiday movie as a kid. A father shot to death on Christmas Eve. His children driven off a bridge into an icy river. A mother grieves. The angel Gideon appears. “I need to tell you something,” she said after the waiter left our salads. I perked up, wondering if it had something to do with her fiancée. His favorite things were green smoothies and making fun of ugly people and he always pointed out when my sister had seconds. I put down my fork, hoping for a called-off wedding. She was a quietly intelligent nursing student. A hot girl who had been getting into Jesus. She was only twenty-two. |