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Cotquean

eight / times before, / I saw those lifeless eyes, / How lonely, like a cat / My disrupter, my – Cotquean – …

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Novia

In the photo they put on her grave
she wears a shell pendant, and you
feel the ocean behind her, the wind.
I remember her in many occasions,
but especially twice…

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War Dream: Hebenon Cloud

  • L. Acadia 
  • 1 min read

Swinging out colossus-scale glass doors
sucks us: air-conditioned playhouse chill
to suffocating Taipei summer
nights’ muggy embrace in Chang Kai-Shek
memorial—no, Liberty square…

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A Bluish Heart

When my grandmother died, I was pregnant. My mother told the funeral, even though she was forbidden to do so. Good news had to be shared. And my aunts said, “A life for a death,” they kissed me, and put their hands on my belly. When my grandfather died, I was driving on the highway. It was pouring rain, the

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Nabila’s PTSD

This poem contains imagery and references to bodily harm and human blood.

Now, Nabila’s digestive
system frowns at meat intake — she retches
on perceiving the smell of Suya or
any kind of barbeque—

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Maria

They say I’m different
I’m not Mister, but Madam
Yet how different am I really?
This metaphor pans back mythical galores to that

Of Eve and Adam…

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I Have Been Growing

I have been growing avocados because I like the idea that one day there will be a tree. That there will be a tree because of me. First, the stones, they must be blanketed in damp kitchen roll and kept warm and safe, until a crack appears, and then, maybe a week or so later, there will be a root,

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Sunday Service

red belly / white shelled filled with dirt:

What would you say if I said
I want to be a girl in all the wrong
ways and a boy just the same
29 years to finally meander meaning
“No, that’s my government name.”…

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Southern Gothic Mechanic

The cows have gone to sleep
as I walk through this park covered in sand
under brisk seaside breeze,
next to the hilled-terrain of cityscape—
marriage of metropolitan hustle with the stillness of the Sound,
marriage: the thing we didn’t do,
everywhere: the screech of tires— breaking…

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This Prince of Silver

This prince of silver
carved his hips into
the sacred wood of a violin,
all hard muscle and f-holes finally desired.

This prince of silver
rings his hair in precious metals,
like shining mail, all the way down
to the newly v-shaped curve
of his core’s sharpness…

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Nightfall in a Fenced Arcadia

Gliding through the half-dark, this preternatural humidity caresses my skin like an unseen lover. I am the moth’s muffled flight through twilight, borne by the hum and whir of bicycle wheels. I’m seeking the moon — or hoping it finds me. Jagged teeth of buildings gnash against the skyline.  This city — lock-jawed in lockdown, holding me hostage for months, clamped tight on us all — finally

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& Still Your Indian Paintbrush Mouth

& still my heart clenched / in her tight little fist. / & still / your kaleidoscope irises / imprinted / into my chewed bubblegum core. / & still rose petal blind. & still stitched / to that yellow mattress. & / still. / & still / a coal mine throat / stolen canary. / & still the moon. /

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Breathtaking

By sheer coincidence, our five-year anniversary happened to fall on the longest day of the year. Neither of us were particularly superstitious nor into astrology, but the summer solstice was said to bring forth luck, which we considered a good omen and yet another reason to go big on celebrations…

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Hygge

Can I live with the denial of your love?
Patches from codices of parchment, a rich repository of my love.
Today, thy hands committed libricide
and I wonder why these thoughts won’t just go away
— my taboo love or this taboo act?

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and so on

i. You ask me how I’m doing and we both know there’s no way I’d ever answer that without lying. You say love isn’t made for people like us— we’re too rational for it. I tell you that I’m a secluded person, I chase the people that hate me. I don’t know why I do it, but I do it.

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Seeking Fluency

Shimmering skin, your bioluminescence effervesces,
cupid eyes and claret cheeks, lips bow-shaped,
your August-boiled blood keeps us both warm
the whole year round…

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Guide to Make Use of a Barbie

Grab the barbie by her blonde hair
& twist her head off in one turn. Remember
your best friend’s words: only stupid girls dye their hair;
remember his words next time you see a nest of burnt wires
clogged in your shower drain…

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Image Matrix

This farce again. I’m city-bound. Watch the carnival of consumerism roll by my window, these come-hither neon seductions. I’m just here for socks and coat-hangers — we all know how that song goes. Extricate self from tram, self from the spill of humanity, the close proximity which cues anxiety. Extricate, land on pavement and — it’s all in my face.

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I Want, I Am

A dyslexic in an alphabet reversed,
the universe looping both flaccid and disjointed:
noodles, macaroni, dot, dash,
a Morse code, impenetrable except for instances
the rest tramples…

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