Feb 2018Vol 1 Issue 2
Heartbreak poetry turns up in places
I didn’t want it to,
most notably my eyelids,
How slow it is
to be become a hole, so that you don’t even know it’s happening.
How you learn how to wake up without making a sound.
it is a secret all knotted up
and if only i could cut the strings,
let it tumble loose from heart-torn seams
remember the day you walked a thousand miles beyond the moon? when you burned your right foot because you stepped in a puddle that was too close to the raw heat of the sun. the next time you look down at your wrinkled, soft, pink toes, wiggle them and feel the bones move under the loose skin to remind yourself of the journey you took to get to this place, where the earth looks so tiny between your thumb and index finger that you forget you used to live there, small and foolish with the rest of the faraway fish.
I miss you on Sundays
and Mondays and Fridays, cold Thursdays, burnt Saturdays, and sometimes on Tuesdays
and Wednesdays I wonder how the world spins on an invisible string when it is so tired and heavy with hurt all the time,
so tied up in people and chatter, and silence
here are the lights glowing
faintly; their warmth smiles through the window-panes,
hushed night and I can’t feel the cold
I pray this will never end
Our bodies are like rag dolls
being tossed around and abandoned after playtime.
We lay alone and broken,
silently waiting for someone
to come by
and pick us back up.
I remember the first time we drove down South Holland Road, the dashboard my submarine window and my father’s headrest
I saw the vast lines of laurels that guarded the sides of the road,
and the purple-cloud petals that littered my vision with dreams of my future and
thinking that we were driving into Heaven, really, with the pretty trees and the grass and asphalt leading the way--
I wanted to stand under the trees
and live for a long time.
z-mag: Feb 2018 features words by Celine Choo | Allison Jiang | Cecil Lee | Laurel Ohanian | Stephanie Pugh | Tabitha Rodriguez | Miriam Tso