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Poetry

love languages & other tongues

By Ana Chen


I. first kiss: badly-vented dorm rooms


teeth – a sinner would do no better than you against
these nails & winter fangs, phlegm in your hands or
is that blood? thighs webbed with
shame & womanhood, map of a land
neither house nor home. silent shrieks –


II. wedding veils: dolled bedrooms/ripped jeans/bikinis/other blades


& so goes the silk: torn, slits
up each hip, erasure art
embroidery. you can’t even call it
a travesty of a tapestry –
& the curtain is up. mama used
to sew your qipaos. tears & breath
heavy in your hands.


III. honeymoon: some stage or another


low moans of cello on
tea sets, cheap paint over
dollar-store iron. & when
they purr at you perform girl you
do it slowly, let your skin loiter
in sweaty palms, hair in
salivating gazes. behind the gauze you
tremble. try to cleave the tongues
from your breasts, try
to count your dignity on fingers
perfumed gold.


IV. within: gardens/solitude


& heat suffocates you so you
find beauty in the cold: the
monochrome glitter of ice, the
sticky snare of electric music. you once
buried yourself in the snow, watched
your skin shimmer blue. baptized yourself,
licked & serenaded your sins to sleep. &
when their skins slap yours, swell
your stomach putrid with fruit & fish,
you close your eyes, chant to remember
that in this world heat
is so small against
the cold.


Picture

syzygy

By Ana Chen


I. ophelia/polonius


undine, she. undone by the boys who
swore to her breasts


as you stumble ashen in these half-mornings: i
despise your brummagem breaths. who
gave you leave to leaf through age like a manual,


by the stillness of her breath, laughing knives

through her thighs between her windfall

sighs. she tried first


to paint wrinkled wisdoms through sluggish words,
to ferment like the wine you warn me never to touch: bitter with
afternotes of self-loathing – or is that resignment? i dream


to drown herself in alcohol, you know. tore
blunt teeth down her throat & screamed


& that is the question:

when she realized these spirits are as foreign
as the blossoms romancing her hips.


&  sorrows


may come in battalions but i see only a single soldier
of desire. deserter & trekker: these vast lands

warm with wanting, concupiscence winds


tumbling like skullduggery schadenfreude: masochism

in reverse. there is a boy who once swore


laughing wanton against these snakelike skins. if you were


to be


there on the night before ophelia swallowed sea & sin,
you would’ve seen her peel down the stars. she longed for another

bludgeoned body, lusted for lukewarm limbs:


the jack to my sally – did you know? there was

another jack he joked about too, tongue wet

with more ease than i have ever


waded through these

shallows of roses, violets knee deep.

& the moon was there, white & merry as ophelia


whispered about my
womanhood. his voice is irony,


bled red with fury. mercurial

laughter, windchime
allure.

but who am i to be wooed by this whirlwind

wheedling, stitches haphazard, this ragdoll desperation &

these skeleton kisses? for all i know you are


these legions of flowers,
marching her to her grave. she was no

true general, you know, having shed her skirts


beneath the stairs of the castle lobby & he
is in my grave, swearing olympus

could be no grander than our tragedy, pleading

for her tongue. yet still they floundered

after her, this fake aphrodite, singing

for her to spring scarlet


never to be

from these rabid foams.



II. gertrude/hamlet


guilt must fester chartreuse within
her bruised tongue, so she pleads with


the sleep i have lost between the crevices

of your breaths: it outnumbers


the swollen warmth between her womb & thighs, the

hourglass neck of her perverted midnights,  

the poisonous cups my father warned me

never to touch. these foolish trophies, penurious paroxysms:

my shame a symphony of debauched


dilettante choruses between
drunken sheets: dead


waters. could these tongues

shatter gold? i could play victim, loathe the voice

that claims breakage


but not by her hand. gertrude shared a bathtub

with ophelia that night, drowned alongside the girl


as i swallow my own skin just

to taste myself. words like hot oil, coy.

i’ve burned you thrice over

but these spirits were no stranger to her. two kings’ teeth
had once mounted her throat & this fire she ravaged

with a sickly pleasure.


& they laugh when i shout, their eyes

byzantine with loathing for me

& for themselves. i deserve


ophelia’s tears: gertrude couldn’t stand them nor

those maddened poppies, those garlands

of gunpowder. she shattered


nothing less: whore, filth

between these pitted lips & gutted

promises. i emptied


their bottle right then & there, between the thighs she named


my sanity & my pride: what is

this desire – stop this jaundiced janus:


treachery & treason. fled from the bathroom, feet
cold on stubbled floors, red vintage in her veins as


screams split in two. slitted sheets,

bubbling throats – i think of

penelope, for i am both her & odysseus:


– did you know? – the moon cajoled her
pearled folded breasts. quartered herself
within the armor & arms of


the anchor & the mast, praying faith

tethers me to cold thighs & colder beds.

but i know


her king husband brother son

self, screamed & slit her ribs
from left to right, shredded


odysseus’ serenades to circe between the

witching hours. so why should i be the sole siren?

this feast rots from satin to satin, buried in


each seam between her shoulder blades, cleaved
her viscera from the gullet of


the king’s funeral, the queen’s

matrimony. here: consider


her hips. when she finished she

was numb. was small. was


her son, furious but

furtive. would you tear asunder

her breasts, your shame? would you shred


woman?


me?


mute dumb metastasis, these shards

of glass & guilt. tonight


i do not need a thousand

misfortunes when this one suffices

to sling & suffocate these shameless sheets. tonight


gertrude envies

the moon & the mad girl. tonight gertrude

spills petrichor sin from her soiled throat &


i desert this land for your arms. apparel

proclaims the woman but here i stand: weary &

naked.


tonight she must


settle here: let me fall asleep against your

unknowing breaths, one callow lie to

another. take my hand & let us


stumble home.



III. chang-e/houyi


it was a harrowing journey from
sibilant sword to
ossified solitude so she


& the apple tree & i have

unearthed our wombs. our words. our

insecurities. so i find myself quite safe from your


lies. between the craters or

maybe within one, catches


musings. i have one too: i don’t want you here, not that

you need telling – sometimes your astronomical flights

terrify me, whiplash me with


her breath & bearings. reminisces on the impermanence

of impossibility, the denouement

of divinity. has she has shaved enough


sanity. shades of sulfur. when did i decide


to be called goddess?


flights of angels sing me to rest. yesterday

i did not like my given face so i sculpted a new one

from sandpaper skin & cayenne teeth. you must be confused


& planets away, her husband burns her blood oranges & cakes, washes

his sins from sons and suns. he says she

was a hero, swallowed the hemlock called immortality


so i find triumph

in mock kisses. i give you my tongue


to sanctify both it &

herself. this story is the only one

that will salvage his sanity


& you set my neck ablaze: the

right side. & i will moan at your lips &

what did you say?


so she listens with sadness. fingers strangling these

unbruised breasts, shrieks savage to these

deaf nights & deafer men: she does not know why


i have already drowned in your arms? alas, my thief, if

guilt is artless jealousy then this must hang

alongside qi baishi. i laugh because i don’t know why


she left but she is glad

she did. maybe she fled because


i find no shame in


her thirst being too big; she longed to swallow the night before

it swallowed her. maybe she tired of waxing her thighs; maybe she was

just bored. some nights she will swim in


the silken pleasure that is

stretch marks & skin but some nights i

suffocate it because


the fume of her husband’s offerings: they reek

of sweet words & sweat &

sex. some nights she is not sure which one she misses more:


conscience or cowardness, which

births the other

from this searing?


& some nights she hurls beauty

& balefulness at her worshippers, laughs a bitter breath

as she stomachs their perfumed paintings.


i do not think you remember

my face, the bareness that is

my eyebrows, but i trust


they sketch her wrong: in actuality she has

a mole on her left cheek and her nose

is crooked. tonight her real tongue serenades


the eclipse of our lips & it’s ironic when i consider

two women &

the void, voices a spirited syzygy

of misery. & she marvels at the oxymoron that is


purity & singleness: my tongue has

only ever melted against yours but already i

am dirty, clots of womanhood in this


closeness: each woman’s feet woven bloody

through the other’s womb but sorrow haemorrhaging

from so many different veins. & she marvels at


mourning. or morning? i am so far

from you & so much at peace that i cannot blame

chang-e for swallowing immortality. perhaps


queen and maiden: she was once

both. perhaps


the coldness of these stars baptized her enough

to drain the weary sea named womanhood.


she inhales

the smoothness of their skin, ubiquitous pearls:


& now the sun

is rising. already i am ancient, heir

to a lineage of scarlet silence. & i remember


four eons ago she too held a bottle &

a razor. trimmed away her hair with her

doubts, silenced follicle as folly, murmured that


my innocence ends at

the throat of a bottle. perhaps if i got myself

to a nunnery or any public school


although quite unshaven, she is much more naked

than either of these women. she is forgotten


for the sake of slaying these rouge rogue thoughts – i could swim in

white, swallow veils. but why should i, when i already count myself queen


of these infinitesimal spaces? for tonight i name myself sin


to the point of distortion, forsaken

to the point of perfection. woman, not flesh:


& tonight i knight myself


divinity.


Picture

Mosaic

By Chaim Durst

Response to Elizabeth Bishop’s One Art


You say loneliness is my master,

my confidant, my only friend –

So, solitude’s become my pastor.  

 

Recover further, recover faster:

you’re clearly on a downward trend:

A part of me still craves a master.   

 

Can’t you take that one step past her?

You must have known that it would end.

She’s only been a lifetime fixture.

 

Even while you were with her,

all you wanted was a friend.

For that alone I earned her censure.

 

Straighten out your broken posture

or else the pain will never end.    

Time with her was no disaster.   

 

What other names are on your roster?

You’re not too broken I contend.  

I say, Loneliness, come be my master.

Hold me in your arms of plaster.

Picture
Merger
By Francesca Mall
 
Once there was you and me
A concentric circle

Tranquil
Whole
Our hearts intersecting
At multiple points
Across the plane
 
And then it cracked
It changed shape
I became just a line
Sometimes curvy
Sometimes straight
Looking to
Connect again
With the parts of my heart
I had lost
 
Now
We are parallel lines
Running back and forth
along the same grid
Without meeting
 
Little do we know
That
The universe
Always meant for us to
converge
Then
Separate
In a dance of beating hearts
 
And yet
Always
There is the possibility
Of our reconnection
Of everything
Coming full circle
And
Even if it doesn’t
The change it made will never really leave
 
 
The thing about convergence is
That once you
are apart of someone
and then you separate
The point they met in your heart
Becomes
An open place
It is a part of who you are
And who you will become
 
You will carry that space
Of
Love & loss
Into
Your next
Heart merger
 
Then all of a sudden
You will find
Your heart’s holes
Filled up with
All the intersecting
Points of love
That new heartlines bring
 
And
Yet you might still have
Some holes left open
 
But remember
All these holes in our hearts
Are
Chances
For new beginnings
Picture

Melancauliflower

By Jaimee Lee

If you could describe Sadness, what would she look like?

 

Perhaps, she is the lady in black

Holding onto her grievances,

Telling herself that she still lives

Yet, carries around a carcass

Unaware and indifferent.

 

Perhaps, she is the overachieving girl

Who had victory in her grasp,

Only to choke at the last second

And miss her last shot

To play in the finals.

 

Perhaps, she is the young woman

In a state of overbearing guilt,

Blaming herself for hurting someone she loves,

But carries on as he does

As they both mask the pain.



Her hair bounces, matching her important strides, as she walks down the city street infected by the morning madness. She makes no notice of the following eyes and drifts through the crowd. She is clothed in strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come.



Sadness is complicated,

Sadness is a little naive,

Sadness is empathetically self-destructive,

But she is trying –

She is an enigma.


Sadness is always changing;

She continues to challenge herself

And grow despite all mistakes she makes,

So that one day,

Sadness might say,

"I feel happy today,"

But a little bit of sadness will always stay.



They wonder why she feels familiar, but never try to understand her. Instead, they clamour to her warmth and search for that little piece of home. But she opens her mouth with wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue.



She goes by many names, but when the heart-throb fades, she is known as Nostalgia. They look back and see her for what she is.


People dwell in the presence of Sadness and fear the journey to find Nostalgia.


She is the one with vivid memories

Of her husband in the garden,

Tending to the plants while

The children played into the afternoon

With undeniable joy.


She is the one looking back

At photos of her team, reminiscing

About the passing times,

But looks forward

To the future ahead.


She is the one who loves him

And lets him go for the best,

But she does not forget the times they share,

Because knowing he is growing without her

Couldn’t make her any happier.



Her whispers reach the open ears who dare to listen, but just like the wind, she vanishes and people wonder whether she was ever there. She searches for the quiet commuters and urges them to look up from their phones, to the outside world and remember past times.



Nostalgia is bittersweet,

Nostalgia is a little hopeful,

Nostalgia is overbearingly loving,

But she doesn’t want to change –

She is okay with who she is.


Nostalgia is always there;

She continues to reach out to the lost

And love them unconditionally

So that one day,

They might say,

"I feel happy today,"

Holding onto that bit of nostalgia, always.



She wonders why they are afraid of her and wraps them in a warm embrace to let them know it is safe. She looks well to the ways of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness.



She wears the façade of Sadness to wear you down. She understands you are vulnerable, you are not alone. As the days pass by, Nostalgia will always carry on.


Picture
Sacrilege
By Rachel Chen
we make jiao zhi and you crimp together dough
lick your fingers, soaking the edges
a baptism
while eating guacamole at the same table. it stains
and sticks to the gap between your front teeth
sacrilege, I think
for no reason at all
so I get rid of the feeling
by resolutely stuffing chips
down my throat.

​
​Editor's Statement
​Blog Posts
​Visual Arts
​Performing Arts
​Issue#3 - Intersect
Copyright © 2020 by It's Real Magazine. ​All Rights Reserved.
ISSN 2688-8335, United States Library of Congress.
publ. Bellevue, Washington.
​
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