Poetry from Siraj Sabuke

i eat night.

i eat night as would a child a hundred year hungry
to quicken the arrival of dawn for he is the chariot
that brings my mother home from the abattoir father calls room
we are three children ‘in my father’s house’

i the oldest is twelve. what kills me at home
is my blossoming fear for my ten year old sister
as if fertilized, her breasts are so ample
she looks like the 17 year old girl next door

i fear for my sister because when i was 6
i fell upon father profusely sweating
on a girl 2 years  older than me, her breasts
are hardly three fingerful: thumb middle-finger forefinger

he stays away from home sometimes 9 months
when at home, he leaves before dawn
with nothing for mother to keep us
breathing and comes back deep in the night
drunk to fuck patience out the remains of life
from our hungry mother

but strange it is
that i see me preferring night to day
i love night and her darkness
because when she embraces earth
she becomes the nikaab
in which my mother
hides the wrinkles of sorrow
eating the fruits of beauty off her face

and here is my fear:
one day, i will wake up an orphan
protecting his second sister in this world
peopled by uncertain beings
because that day my mother will come home
find her husband fucking beauty
out of her 10 year old daughter, his daughter
with sorrow overflowing from her heart
she will attack him
he drunk, will fight back
bring out the knife he always carries around his waist
push my sister smashing her head on the wall
and then stab mother to death

and i will grab my 6 year old sister
run away, seeking path in this wilderness

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Poetry from Sequoia Hack

Experiencing China

 

你好 。欢迎你们来中国。

Nǐ hǎo. Huānyíng nímen dào zhōngguó.

Hello, and welcome to the People’s Republic of China.

Today, the temperature outside will be ninety-five degrees and there will eighty-seven percent humidity in the air.

Head left to go to metro.

Head right to go to Chang’an Avenue.

 

To celebrate the end of middle school, my family and I went on a trip to China. The trip started in Hong Kong.

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Poetry from Kaia Hobson

Bangs

by Kaia Hobson

 

i could cut your hair like that again

just run away from me

scissors in hand

following you and your giggles

that quickly turn to screams

when i grasp those curly brown locks

and snip what i can

i leave what is best

before you wriggle your way out of my arms

once more

 

though you are faster now

later sometimes i see the uneven

strands that form crests

as if to send a message:

you will not be controlled.

 

you are the burden i do not want lifted from my shoulders

and yet

you set sail and drift away

and i am left standing on the shore

blunt scissors in hand

Flash fiction from Luna Acorcha

Did you Hear?
“Did you wake up last night to the dry brush of the wheels too low to touch?”
“No Ma, I woke up to the pants of tired chubby sick children who have crusty liquid in their lungs.”
Ma touched her toes, then reached to touch this sky. “And the night before, did you hear the leopard’s paws make pretty thumb prints? They were the cause of the cries of babes with their calloused hands on their too sweet, soft, tormenting skin.”
Baby Jo, heard his Ma out, but knew what he heard that night two nights ago. “I heard Mary’s dad say that her mother was once better before she drove herself away. Then Mary said ‘I never want to look like my own blood, even the one far away, the life lived on some other planet.”
“What about one week ago, were you there when two cheeks touched and those brains above those cheeks wondered if this was real? When veins came out of arms like weeds come out of powdered ground? Did you see how he waited for waves of itty bitty talk to weave their way through this brushed out brown?”
“Sorry Ma, I missed it. Did you say one week ago?” Ma moved the way she sat, and nodded her crafted head out of bark and dirt and sixty cent seeds.
“Ma! That was when the happiness of the holidays blistered their eyes, their ears and made marks on their skins of little babes. The beatdown, the take on take made them all sick. They had too many marshmallows with their sweet potatoes that day. They had a final say of what will come next week when the next holiday makes its way under this bridge of fragile glass.”
“Baby Jo, I want you to caress their hard bridged noses with your whiskered wings. Tell them Ma is coming. Soon, metal will fall as it once was before he came and made it this. This will once become what I knew it to be. This sky was green with the jewels we once choked. Don’t you wonder Jo, why is this skirt red, ears red, waste brown, cows brown? Look at what happened two weeks ago.”
“Ma, I was there two weeks ago. Now I know all that you have been taught and you no longer have to teach me.”
“Jo, I still do, when instead of a delicate tea cup with warm pink sweets, you see a cracking tower with seventeen floors. That is no good.”

Poetry from J.J. Campbell

your powers are limited
 
walk hand in hand
with all the regrets
that got you to here
there is never a
reason to look
behind you
your powers
are limited to
controlling only
what is in front
of you
there’s plenty of
demons waiting
for you
no need to mingle
with those from
your past
all of them seek
the same thing
as you do
the end

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Poetry from Lauren Ainslie

Glacier

My pulsing heart has frozen

And that ice has spread

Through my stomach arms legs brain

My eyes are now sky-mirrors

My breath a dripping fog

It is growing inside me

butterflies behind my eyelids could not fly

They were trapped in an igloo

Their beryl wings turned into snow

They are now part of the glacier

I shiver

The floe has reached my skin

It cracks and pulls

It melts from my eyes and hands

You put it there

I wait for the day you drown.

 

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Poetry from Vijay Nair

 

Bleeding Kashmir

01

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

O, Kashmir! My Kashmir!

Why are you crying?

Who makes you cry?

Me? or, my rulers?

Or, your own men?

Or, our neighbours?

Repression is at home

She withers for long

 

Vale, you desiccated from

 

Peak or lake is a dispute?

Laughing waters on, it ripples?

Covered all pine, birch or maples?

Or, green carpet of staples?

Orchard yields pear or apples?

Outer beauty attracts all enemies

In funeral pyre her inner beauty

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