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Tag Archives: Alisha Yi
it’s dinner, and i want to leave. i want to break something, while it still quivers, skimp its cover before it picks itself up from dirt and pleads. watch it emerge like fish guts stemming from the fingers, its intestines … Continue reading
You were very much short, with dark hair and big hands. And you liked the way she walked, from downtown and over & the way she paced in front of kitchen windows, the way it was white when she sat … Continue reading
the paint congeals into a portrait of when father sent me to be born: in it, I am a moth in a chasmal cage—listless— with my skin as the canvas and your hands as the instrument birthed by candlelight. in the … Continue reading
some days, I draw a canonic nude of the body as an s. I replace the fingers for clovers and mistake them for quiet as it looks on days where sometimes there are no cicadas & it’s silent. on paper, … Continue reading
I page catcalls on old telephone wires, but my tongue is dead swollen. On flyleafs, we write autopsy questions in the same handwriting with blue fountain pen ink. This is a reprint of work originally published in The Best Teen … Continue reading
It’s dead outside: January baring another parish: wing bones singed over fire, a damask on oak tabletop. A month where young boys don’t listen, toss white tea bags into chary mugs. At morning’s quake, we sit along the foyer, sky … Continue reading