The turmoil started as a blunder, before taking shape in our feet.

               we’re miles apart from language. I soften the hardground

of a chorus—to give ache rhythm. my fate, biting on the balustrade as

                a lad surprising his wounds with newer cut, soaking in the

melancholic wet breeze of leave—sluicing his raw flesh. December,

eating weird dishes in his head

                  & other Christian home left of his body. hand, full of grief

& the burial of loved ones palms

                   a blooming stalk & it begins to wither. a mother’s outcry splits

day apart, & we come to know ‘pain is sharp chorus starved of water.’

what dialects do you hurt in? does it wear the echo of a lad fine-tuned by

loss, alien to the warmth of a

                    toddler’s embrace. or stays accentuated, how we learn to leave

a family—unpronounced as the vowel loss in a sentence. the Catechist in a

bid to give pain a soft landing,

                    recites the pattern of death: adult-to-toddler. yet, look how loss

turn benevolence to boneyard. when I long for Ma’s embrace, I list all that are

not within my reach: the thrown-up

                     galaxy, nebula strike & rumpled fog line. one way to know ‘joy is

a fine contradiction running into space.’

                      I know the vowel that wrecks my bloodstream, I carry my

emptiness as a chorus. light waylays me—a skinsearching for luster. I’ve lamp

my way through die minutes to know

there are no glitters at the end of the tunnel, no requiem for lost consonants.

say, a noun in motion is me outrunning the knife. then, what is noun at rest—if

                       not Ma lying skyward towards heaven. all attempts to reach out,

turns her into a pronoun used instead for harm.

yet I reach out anyways, since hurt is stale language to my existence. there

are sadness so ripe, they bear offspring. happiness attains gaseous state

& evaporates from me. your mouth

                    meeting mine is how my life sparks a flame. the body harbors

more missile than missing rib, & a boy models himself into an inferno. when I

water his rage,

the government heightens its embargo on boys whose softness scolds harm.

                     which is to say—a relative once harmed my softness. which is to say,

harm is relative. home is a weapon fashioned against me. maybe, self-harm is

passage rite I must perform.

                      a boy ago, grief poisoned my bloodline. today, I wake up deveining

my body. I wish to wreck my loin beyond suture to ascertain: there’s a flooding in

my name, yet no vowel to assuage its gushing torrent.

Contributor Notes

Grown, we lean over the edge of your best friend’s boat.

Fred cuts the engine as we curl our toes tight

to make steady, our shaking hands hugged

around you. We throw you in, slowly, then

urgently. Even in death, your body aches

for the lake’s blue velvet.

Hours later, the fat sun begins to roll over

as I tiptoe to our sodden dock, your spot

for lukewarm morning coffee

& glazed maple donuts from Tom’s.

I allow myself to miss you,

to see the lake from your eyes.

This place opens like a music box

recently wound, twisted by memories

that dance in the yawning light:

jingle bells in thick pine,

deer prints in blanket snow.

My sister and I with crossed legs

and open mouths to drink down sun.

Our heads heavy on dusty pillows.

The silver coated rustle,

grass like glass and cicada hum,

fireflies alight on water lilies.

The sugared hush of lake life,

brushing softly against me.

Contributor Notes