Jan 2018Vol 1 Issue 1
1. to be haunted
it looks me in the eye everywhere i go. i’ve tried leaving countries and following people but it comes back up and i see it sitting at the other end of my bed when i wake up in the morning.
2. to be hungry
harrowing. i can dig to the bone but it will do nothing. there is no fight or flight in this one; it is fight or die or die trying. i’ve eaten so much but i feel as if i have had nothing since birth.
it’s been two years and my words got skinny,
no meat on their bones.
when will they
come back to me?
we pass like strangers,
lightly skimming the surface of such a
stretch to such a city
the postcard-perfect silhouettes
of mountains far away
the black holes and ditches; dark shadows; three witches; old graveyards; your hair; the way that you stare; beast under my bed; the things that you said; the memories of you that I’ve painted in red
and curses and beetles and drowning to death; black magic; your breath; the halloween frights; your teeth gleaming white; and everything screams in my visions tonight.
If I wait for the leaves to fall and
the dry heat to blow from every vent,
will it feel more like what I remember?
my hands are clumsy and fumble like shoelaces when I try to thread words into strands to give to you; my thoughts scatter like dice and my fingers sag laden with allergies. I think they are catching winter. The walls are emptier than my mind and I stare at nothing and listen for anything and I feel lost. this is wrong. when I read pages the words seep through my fingertips and spread like sunrises and why can I not do this with my own hands too? I call to the clouds but cannot catch them; they hang limp in my palms like Dali clocks and slouch and slink their way out of my grip.
cold sand and whispering sea,
birds echoing the ghosts of night
beyond broken shells
you can feel the earth pause,
I hear the wind inhaling like a balloon.
it is an unmoving sunday--
the walls have blank faces and the
clocks are not fidgeting.
the wind rustles and between the
blinds I see spindly branches searching
for their sea legs.
I suddenly feel stuck and the spread of
silence feels wrong, so I shift to
change my sheets
and start over again.
z-mag: Jan 2018 features words by Celine Choo | Allison Chu | Leo Engel | Allison Jiang | Mercedes Orne | Vivian Tsai | Fiona Widdershins