Fair Luna, paintress of the night,
Employs her brush with polished skill Upon our quadrate roof to fill It with the colours cream and white. Men viewing from skyscrapers might Deem it a pink sheet—such a thrill! Fair Luna, paintress of the night, Employs her brush with polished skill. This roof looks pocked to naked sight; Therefore, it takes the shielding spill Of moon-made hues (like man's strong will to paint his griefs with laughter bright). Fair Luna, paintress of the night, Employs her brush with polished skill. admissions from the book of love letters i bought when we first met by Tatiana Shpakow (Ohio, 21)4/7/2024
On the first day I can call you mine, I cocoon my arms around you in the heart of the kitchen. You envelop cellophane around our picnic foods––the homemade hand-touched bread loafs as soft as your lips, the chocolate strawberries made with as much carefulness as our desperate kisses in halogen-lit supermarket aisles, the Caprese sandwiches that peel back to reveal every beautiful piece my loving God made just for you. Pour the Peach Bellini down my throat, let it settle. My heart is full of you¹ as the drunken warmth swallows me and settles there, in this jackrabbit organ. On your birthday, lit by the quiet dark, we all stand shoulder to shoulder around the cake. You wear the party hat at a slight tilt, I wear my heart pinned to my jacket sleeve. I’m no drinks in, as you become legal age, grinning wolfishly, knowing already that there is something sweeter in this room than the vanilla frosting on my fingertips. You unpin that heart, and all the patchwork until this moment splits open. I cannot exist without you².
I don’t know, I don’t want to know who I was before I met you. Just a month before I turn 21, I am forgetful of everything but seeing you again. At the end of winter, a passport misses a stamp, a heartbreak like your face missing 27 lipstick marks. Liberty emerged from the ocean, flicked the deliciously salty sea off her eyes and thought: don’t
be scared. Two more days only. She turned to the beach. On the golden sand, the umbrellas looked like smarties on cookie dough, baked by the shining sun. I am not going to get stuck on this island, she reassured herself: I am not. I am going back home. The sea water, cool and transparent like liquid aquamarine, glazed her temples. She shivered. Nothing good came out of that island. It was a cruel island. You could not stay on that island. There was no work, no money, no legacy, on that island, where one struggled, died and was forgotten. That was the destiny of all the people she had ever met until the day she had left for the Mainland. It had been her mother’s destiny too. Why she had returned for the first time in ten years for that weekend, after she had denied her roots for a decade, she didn’t know. To show her native land how well she had escaped Her? How she had succeeded outside her domain and got her college degrees, life experiences, friends; her new house, her office in a skyscraper, her husband to be? She smiled, admiring the diamond on her ring finger. The plane tickets had been mysteriously cheap. The idea of going back to her hometown had made her feel uneasy, but she had convinced herself: three days only. Three days of sun, tasty food and relaxation: the only good things that land could offer a human being. If she wasn’t there to show off her new life to the island that had imprisoned her for almost two decades, she realized, then she was there for the short vacation she needed after all the hard work she had put in her job that year. A fresh breeze hit her face, awaking her from her stream of thoughts, and cooled the water around her. Liberty frowned. The mistral had left the island the night before: it never returned so quickly. She shivered again. She set her eyes on the sunbaked shore and pushed forward. A woman whimpers more than her child will even,
beaten by pushes of words piercing her heart to pieces, and fists quick to teach her the sign language of a beast. Her tears become the ink of this pen. Every morning, she shapeshifts from the beauty of the night into a mourner, For every breaking of the dawn kills the night’s beauty, and mocks how short the night that swallows her day’s grieving is. At noon, she is denied sunlight. Her skin becomes where fists carrying abuse land, and her mouth is a gagged voiceless thing. The night is where she tells the day’s experience. Her body caresses the serenity of darkness, and pray to stay there forever, for a new dawn is a nightmare. Seventeen years ago,
my father named me Aijia. Ai for love, Jia for family. If you put it together, mhea said, it means “loving,” or “family loving.” Eight years later, Didi—younger brother came. His name is Qijia and I yelped in joy when I saw how it matched mine. But when I asked father about it, he responded with a Chinese proverb: Qijia, Zhiguo, Pingtianxia: Order your family, Rule your country, Bring peace to the world. When I was 8,
society showed me that I could be unstoppable. That the world could be mine to command and the moon mine to capture. That even if I overshot the moon, fingertips barely brushing past igneous, the stars would be there to catch me, engulfing me in starlight and acceptance. At 8, I called myself limitless. And at 9, they called me delicate. Through eyes instead of tongues, skimming over my raised hand, and bypassing the wrist flicking and unconscious bouncing, Scanning the room for a “strong boy,” Someone who didn’t crack under the pressure of a broken nail. At 9 years old, they told me I was weak. But, when I was 10, they showed me I could be intelligent. Gave me the taste of an A+ and the rush of that 100%. Instilled an insatiable curiosity, only satisfied by answers and worksheets. Until I knew knowledge, I did not know I was starving. At 10, I called myself savvy. And at 11, they called me scandalous. Told me that shoulders grabbed eyes like bait hooked fish, and math was made difficult by above-the-knee dresses. They taught me about spaghetti straps instead of times tables, lectured me until skirts gave way to sweatpants and camis to cardigans. At 11 years old, they reduced me down to a distraction. —After Ada Limón
Freshman year gym class I walked with Sophia along the path looping around the tennis courts. I was wearing that blue tie-dyed t-shirt, and maybe the shoes were blue too. Suddenly, a group of boys crossed our path. One of them said Sophia had some tennis balls, but I didn’t realize he was talking about our breasts for perhaps a day, or a week, but likely a month. Doesn’t wish to be commodified, or
have his hair touched (thank you,) The property has no affiliation with: terf-lite, classics-upholding, gatekeeping, one in a million diversity-hire that needs to be shushed-- (This author is: A fairytale. In a fairytale world. It is one he created to even have privilege To breathe--) Welcome everyone, tonight's play will follow the standard three-act structure: My body is stiff
unmoving tired as I pull myself out of one mold and into another. Who do I need to be today? Am I aspiring artist funny friend overachieving student closeted daughter am I emotional invisible boring plain too much Can you see me? Who looks back when I look in the mirror? dear mom,
Lately I’ve been moved by how I recognize the bags under your eyes from every night I splash water on my face and look up. I hate having my photo taken because I have a hard time recognizing myself (sometimes) and it scares me (all of the time) and– I have this compulsion to write every poem in the first person and I want to ask if you think that makes me selfish. We like pistachio ice-cream and clouds. I can’t snap because you taught me to do it with my ring finger instead of the middle one. I like to tell people I am chronically late because I get it from you. I feel happy when you hug me. I know myself mom but I’m not sure I’ll ever recognize myself the way I think I’m supposed to. And I think it’s good you’ll never read this because I hate to make you sad– |