TO THE LITTLE GIRL PEELING THE SKIN OFF THE PAINTED GUM TREES — MK Bessac
It is gruesome,
what I did to you.
Nubby nails, like ivory hunters
husking every corium, every rind
and for what?
What was I hoping to find?
A tingling, arcane notion
you were holding out on me,
some vital tidbit enshrouded
beneath that bark.
But it was only pulp, sap, dumb
and wet, insisting upon itself,
reflective in the trembling grasp
of my selfish tiny, selfish hands.
MK Bessac is a writer from Hawaii and a senior in high school. Her poems have been selected for Editor’s Choice in Teen Ink and published in The Howl. When not writing, she enjoys playing with her cat, Misu, and stretching.
First Rice — Anika Tenneti
I)
In 2010 I’m six months old.
It is my अन्नप्राशन1, and
I am fed by Mother
and her mother and her mother and
every mother to have ever lent their withered hands,
saintly fingers posed in a gentle kiss, as if they
owed us their love.
She sits me in the eye of the room,
a forking road, and lays out
a book a dollar bill a pen a bangle.
I crawl, a feral bandit.
My eyes swill the lactescent luster of gold,
and I choose the bangle.
II)
In 1968 I’m reborn as a kerosene lamp.
Each evening, Grandmother parts through the
first rice crops of these hypnotic paddies
when I beckon her with a sky of dwindling saffron,
with sundown.
She must think I’m a दीपम्2
with how reverently she fattens my noxious flame.
As I dissolve into plumes, I take a final swig.
I imbibe the fuel within the fourteen-year old patriarch,
before she bullock-cart-rides for an hour next morning
to get the schooling she’s starved of here.
Riding past thatched roofs and marchers’ faded footsteps,
she hopes her daughter could have more,
that her daughter’s daughter could have even more,
that—
III)
I’m reborn as a poet.
I lodge in a dim, stale-aired chamber,
clinging to the smoke of पोङ्गल3:
I scorched it on my first day, when it failed to rise.
Enclosed by these ashen walls, I drink faraway stories:
anemic cordials for my emptying thorax. My vying,
dying field.
Bangle clinking to the beat of a pyrite heart,
fingers rattling, breaths convulsive,
the pen blots
like the घृतम्4 I spilled last दीपावली5.
I pause,
and then it floods, intoxicating the famished pages of this book.
Maybe by this outpour of accrued curse, I think to myself,
I am purged.
That is, until my pulse trickles into संसार6.
When will I learn?
_______________________
1 Annaprāśana (a word in Sanskrit) - a Hindu ceremony where infants are fed their first bite of rice, and then take part in a symbolic “choosing game”
2 Dīpam - an oil lamp lit during worship; represents prosperity, good fortune, and enlightenment
3 Pongal - a dish of rice and milk that is intentionally boiled over when moving in to a new home; represents abundance
4 Ghrutám - a clarified butter often used as fuel for oil lamps
5 Dīpāvali - a festival where oil lamps are lit to celebrate the victory of good over evil and virtue over ignorance
6 Samsāra - the cycle of rebirth based on actions in previous lives; can be escaped by enlightenment
Anika Tenneti is a poet based in California. She is greatly inspired by the idea of using writing, especially poetry, as a tool for expression and introspection. She has explored a vast array of themes in her works, some of which have appeared or are forthcoming in anthologies such as Cargoes, Sheepshead Review, and Just Poetry. When she is not writing, she enjoys learning about various scientific concepts and doing origami.
We’re Sitting on Car Hoods at Starbucks — Fiona Liu
and I haven’t slept in three days. The parking lot is grey &
empty; the sky purple in fast-moving clouds / someone has
turned the saturation way up. Static crackles from
tinny earbuds / and thoughts knock around my skull like pills
in a half-empty bottle // that I never learned to swallow; so I
roll them under my tongue into the hollows of my soul & they
coat my mouth with their chalky aftertaste long / after you are
gone. Citric acid puckers my raw fish-cheeks, leaves my lips /
acetic snowdrops / you eat ghost peppers just to feel something; so maybe
we can die / with smiles // or maybe we don’t die at all, maybe we just live
forever, and / isn’t that a horrible thought? Halfway across
America, there’s another bullet shot & blood runs red like the mother’s
(secret lover) / we’re screaming under the streetlights; it’s a silent night
because the world is too loud / to hear; only I’m just a glitch drinking
black coffee with lime soda & you said god is the third pattern you see
at three a.m. // when you press the base of your palms too hard against
your swollen eyes (we’re seeing stars). Somewhere in the world, a baby is crying
for / its mother, who lies dead & trampled beneath the tires
of an American / tank. Did they ever tell you / how the world
fights its wars? — with McDonald’s and Coca-Cola and
Hollywood movie stars / wearing blue jeans with Converse
high-tops. When I close my eyes & they are too dry to cry / but
you’re still wishing upon shooting stars // cheers! Let’s take this shot
bottoms up. Maybe if I / drink enough Red Bull I can fly & maybe
if I fly I’ll see / god is the color of your eyes when you’re lying // like
maybe if we had eyes at all. \\
Fiona Liu is a high school sophomore from California. Her work has been recognized with a Gold Medal from the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. In her free time, she can be found listening to music, curled up with a good book, or visiting local cafes.