Issue #31.3 A Triple Issue: Riayn Spaero, Katie Kim, Shannon Guglielmo
Two Poems by Riayn Spaero
When I say tender skin, I mean
a blues guitar cover of “Lady Picture Show,” and En Vogue’s “Don’t Let Go,” spare and decadent as a hip bone carving a path in flesh, and “Mercy
of the Fallen,” lo-fi, only two presses— yours, mine—one master with all the rights,
all permissions. and, “The More You Ignore Me, the Closer I Get” without trepidation in fingering, strokes, or breath control for blessing a need progress spoiled to toxicity— pluck a little poison into me, sing until my walls reverb the hazard coded in your tone. an amplified
list of fine watches, culled to overwhelm but not pin down my wrist—break it down for me like I’m five, but don’t make me feel my five; life careened to a sparrow’s-eye view, all numb, everything and nothing’s bothering me without warning at five. a whisper to break the tie between which face sweetens
what I lost, ran out, and can’t make up.
a canceled appointment. a ditched flight. an ear. a lie
from goodness and mercy. a ride down Mulholland to head off panic’s rise in my chest, winding inside audible lines and crushed stones to catch breaths above dimmed stars and night- lights of a sleep I couldn’t dream hard enough.
a sternum to emboss the sinews tethering my shoulder blades.
an atonement bloodier than your offense.
my word before your flesh, blood, and water bodies, bodies, bodies.
the other ear.
Your rough patch, for my aloed hair exit wounds, for my milkweed and honey, offering, pressure, release.
Apart from the Body
As told by vertebrae L4 and 5:
Senna, h r sentence, desire persists.
Else for what to expect of we remains of a wom n named High Witch, first, then Queen Mary between what swelled bosoms endow
and what drowns—blood’s erosion through its current’s rush against our collective. We tried to gasp, but could only twist 35⁰ off the center h r scapula and pelvis now feign
to straight up stand—oh, yes, we were where? Else for what to expect of our wom n, our whittled g rl, than to insist, Not I, the breach was his contact, his caterwaul, sucked teeth, fss-fss hiss to a pussy cat who’s cast and trampled her purr in sand?
What to expect of Most High Witch Queen Mary, but beg our strength to deliver his soul
to pocked asphalt, engine exhaust, kabob smoke, manly spit, drunken piss, pigeon shit, phlegm, and ingest
loss dislodging his face and gratitude’s quickened ex- hale for skidding tires, honked horns, curses and wails without impact.
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Riayn Spaero is a writer and performance artist. Her work appears or is forthcoming in CALYX Journal, Artemis Journal, Rogue Agent, Autofocus, the Under Review, New Feathers Anthology, LIGEIA, Major 7th, and The Believer. She's had the privilege of reading her work at The Elizabeth Street Garden & McNally Jackson Summer Poetry Reading series as well as the Frank Conroy Reading Room at the Iowa Writers' Workshop, where she recently attended their summer intensive. Spaero is still learning to embrace changes to her plan, while reconnecting with her culture's healing arts and languages and drawing upon the words and rituals of her grandmother.
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A Poem by Katie Kim
Hangul Abecedarian for Halmoni
after Franny Choi
Gone: the smoothness between the syllables of my name. Her fingers unbraid knots from the century she still lives in—a century of hanbok and yeot.
Dying legs folded beneath her, she’s stubborn as the baskets filled with laundry from Dad’s marathon. She sits beside me, close enough to smell my lice shampoo.
Most days she asks me, What you eat today? Every day, another photo of banchans on my plate. She worries the vegetables she sends home won’t fill me up.
Licorice stains the inside of her suitcase black, leftover from her trip. I think she’s forgotten I don’t leave Korea for four more days, mailing letters I’ll open when I return.
Germs! Halmoni says each time she scrubs my hands with hers, thumbs pressing circles of soap into my palms. In her eyes, I’m still five & struggling to reach the faucet.
Can you leave my room? I asked once. The words didn’t sound like mine, so I typed, I’m sorry, even though she still doesn’t know how to check Messages.
Pausing before I enter the kitchen, I rehearse: mi-yan-hae-yo. I see Halmoni smile as she places chopsticks beside the noodles she cooked for me, still warm.
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Katie Kim is a student attending Deerfield Academy in Deerfield, Massachusetts. As a writer, she is particularly interested in poetry and realistic fiction. Her work has previously appeared in Saranac Review, Little Patuxent Review, The Spotlong Review, and elsewhere. She is an alumna of the Sewanee Young Writers’ Conference, the Juniper Institute for Young Writers, the Advanced Ellipsis Writing Workshop, and the Adroit Summer Mentorship Program. As well as creative writing, Katie enjoys visual art and playing the oboe.
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Two Poems by Shannon Guglielmo
Hüzün (4 weeks pregnant)
When I decided to procreate I realized I’d lost all my ancestral knowledge:
the moon & women cycles what to chew from the ground not to cramp how the mother spider’s silk is stronger than steel.
Underneath my brocade skin-womb I am in communion with Dinah & Leah. They help me live out this sadness-bellied hope
as I hunch by the mirror sink toilet the grief-joy of those two blue lines. I want to give birth to a birth giver
to be a sacred incubator & reconnect to sonder to undulate humanness. Trying to get pregnant
gives you permission to look people in the eye & ask What are you grieving?
Fulcrum-balanced waiting pining for redemption the amongness of my mother
& grandmother & Eve. We are tied together by this hüzün.
Carmela (32 weeks old)
After Lascaux Cave Paintings, Montignac, France ca 17,000 BC
There was a woman 19,000 years ago. Her baby cried in the night. She pulled the baby close & nursed her lest the beasts hear and draw near.
She was too tired. After midnight but before dawn’s eyelash streaked the sky with carmine she felt that limb & mouth clung to breast.
Her murmuring a language we’d never be able to speak but we could understand as:
For I alone am your mother for you alone are my soul this alone is my milk stained and soured like new grass & plum skin.
The edges of her were falling apart lately, fraying heel calluses cuticles black round the rim of the nail
back teeth grinding til they nip the lip and cheek eyes washed out to gray watching eroded bluff ants in cracks sun reflected in water.
This woman speaks to me now says, You won’t regret the sweet days of youth sucked from you to feed your baby’s soul.
Take my faith until you have time to believe.
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Shannon Guglielmo is a poet and math teacher in New York City. Her recent work is featured in Rogue Agent, Bombay Literary Magazine, Right Hand Pointing and Willows Wept Review. She is the founder and organizer of a no-fee poetry workshop that connects poets from New York and Massachusetts to strengthen their craft. She is a recipient of the Fund for Teachers Award and the Math for America Master Teacher Fellowship.
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