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eo-10

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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