Friday, January 21, 2022
Tuesday, January 18, 2022
by Suchi Govindarajan
To grow up without cold seasons is
to find an obsession dusted with snow
For too long, my sun kept drawing shadows
But in my dreams, I would see tree trunks
branching into fragile hands
my bare prayer held up against the white
I imagined the weighted blanket of it
how it might quieten my heart's chaos
make my longings more calm and austere
In days when sunspots flecked my lashes
and the sand felt blister-rough as though it
would fuse into glass and catch the glare,
I dreamt of becoming a migrant bird
compelled to find routes away from the sun
I would follow every winter wind and current
And as calendars faded to blue-ink endings,
I would fly to lands full of diffused light
Like the Earth, I too would complete my orbit
pulled by a strange and foreign love.
By Terese Svoboda
Issue no. 106 (Spring 1988)
At dusklight she slips
into acetate underclothing,
Has she slept
all day? Or is that housedress
draped over the hassock warm? From her motion,
one of submission, her pale arms
upraised, the slip sliding,
talc issues invisibly.
Mother is faceless so far up in the dark.
Just her torso glows,
and the color around her takes on the design
of a falling leaf, grey-yellow plaid.
From the mirror, she draws what little light
there is inside her, and sighs.
But she is really very young
and will think so later.
Now nothing can claim her.
I am quiet, all chrysalis,
hidden in her closet.
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