By Dalia Levanon Wildflowers My vision blurs for a moment a single moment As the screen unfocuses the borders of the tiny squares disappearing so all I see is a field of smudged faces Each expression a different wildflower sprouting from the soil of Zoom The logo flashing as I blink and the teacher turns to the next slide. Frozen They are trapped
in two-dimensional frames as the Wifi disconnects Each yawn stuck forever a hand muffling the sound Each stolen text message eyes darting below the screen Each moment of peace as a camera is turned off so briefly That they are sure no one would notice Yet I did I won’t tell I promise That you were letting the exhaustion roll off of you like a tide letting your eyes flicker shut Before my screen unfreezes and the yawn is over the phone is put away And your face can be seen again.
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The Awaited Breath Grace Ye It has already been long enough
She couldn't remember the last time ... with sniffled senses a step was taken out the padded front door Timid attire latched layers of protective garments over any which openings Time would tell when the distances could close ....for now, the clarity of the open air spread a calmness in her unsettled heart Trust In Us Grace Ye three little branches hung onto me
like a free fiddle I sang onto the sea. My last hug was ages ago and it seems like just yesterday since ‘merica stirred. she smelt the safety of the fog One of her fellow creatures of the dark. Our patience gave out, mind the quiet — the air on our tongue Sparked with resistance Hard steel toed boots stomped against the pavement Lines and lines of armed forces encroached our peace The tears had barely dried before it Started again Bullets of rubber, bombs of tears, silent lips against cries for justice Echoed the masses Bubbly Rust And Mist Yume Igarashi Like the crowns of rough dark ocean waters,
I can appear to leap into air Dance in bubbles and flowing skirts of misty white, As I gasp, swallow only the dark threads tangling inside, Hushing me, screaming with me. Or is it I alone who is ripping my throat? Or is it not I at all, as a shell cannot speak? When bloody sunrise reeks more of dry monochrome Than a cackling silhouette of the night Jagged edges of its liquid suppleness Mock each beat of rusting life. Shattered room inside a cage of ivory bars A shadow bangs on the door, frantic, rhythmic. Do we knock because we hesitate To wonder if we are ready, if we truly want, To step inside? Do we knock because we are too eager To know that we are ready, of what we truly want? szns Marshall in the spring we watch the rain. we stay up late talking about nothing and i spend my days thinking about everything. i spend hours memorizing your faceー the way you scrunch your nose when you think, or notice a freckle i didn’t see before, a childhood scar, a birthmark. you take pictures of me everywhere. in the bath, on the couch, eating breakfast. i make a white paper flower for you and you carry it in your wallet. at night i dream of white marble and pink satin.
in the summer, we walk in the park. the sun floats on your skin like an airy kiss, filtered through layers of round leaves. your camera lies forgotten in your desk and you spend more time working on your laptop than you ever did before. you don’t trust me with your facial expressions anymore. i buy a red silk dress, hoping the sight of my shoulders in the thin straps will bring it back. at night i dream of yellow wilting flowers with big, wide petals. in the fall, you leave. we don’t talk much in the last few weeks. your expressions come backー hewn from the dark ungraceful stone of annoyance and indifference. i go to the park and write poems about orange leaves and the birds leaving for winter. the ink is warped from the thick drops that i pretend are rain. one day i come back to an empty house and a crumpled paper flower in the trash can. at night i dream of stifling grey clouds forcing themselves down my throat. in the winter, i cry. cradled by a thick blanket of snow. every tear slowly washes my mind, wiping away the slopes of your neck and the shape of your fingernails. your shampoo bottles sit on the floor of my bathtub and every morning i drink your tea that hasn’t run out yet. your favorite places become sacred temples. i clean out my closet. on the floor is a crumpled red silk dress. at night i don’t dream of anything. |
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