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P
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MAY 2021
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ARUNDHATI MAY DAY INSPIRED
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A FLASH
L ROY ISSUE
“Another world is not only possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing.”
ARUNDHATI ROY
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The 11 pieces in this collection were curated in response to the following prompt: May Day, or “International Workers’ Day,” is a global holiday that commemorates and celebrates the struggle for workers’ rights. In preparation for this upcoming May Day, we ask you to reflect: How are you quietly or loudly acknowledging the movements you’re a part of? honoring your radical communities? recognizing the strides you and your comrades have made towards a world, free from exploitation of vulnerable groups?
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PORTAL
POMEGRANATE SEEDS The cashier at the co-op has the same facemask as me with the logo of our union on it. They make eye contact with me and I can’t see it but I know they smile. “The strike got its own page on Wikipedia,” I tell them, and the smile grows. “Good,” they say, and pass me my pomegranates, blood red jewels spilling from our hands. LEANNE SU Instagram -- @its.lean
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TULIPS A reminder: We have grown tulips with these bloodied hands, sewn garments of crimson agony. The sky is pink tonight; it is waiting for us To stand from these fields and go forth Into a time where we may rest, and breathe. KIERON PORTBURY Twitter -- @Kieronportbury Instagram -- @Kieronportbury
UNTITLED On being asked about the books I’ve read faceless melanin -free names filled my head except for this one corner where sat The Orangedrink Lemondrink Man smoking cigarettes as trauma filled his lungs exhaling the epiphanies of living bare or barely living PANKTI PRAKAR
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PORTAL
ANTHR WRLD i feel her creeping up on me, i hear her mellow hums. she reminds me that the best is yet to come. (and i remind myself that i am deserving.)
KOMAL KESHRAN Twitter -- @malandthemoon Instagram -- @komalkeshran
STEPHANIE Stephanie’s mother gave birth to her in the hours between her split shifts. Her manager docked her an hour’s pay when the pains overtook her, but she returned for inventory. Her friend Karen took charge of the new bundle of time theft. Cora worked two to three jobs and Stephanie managed their budget, and the two to three dollars remaining each week. Math was salvation. She got a scholarship. An internship. A job at NASA. When she saw the plus sign, she readied FMLA papers and whispered to her rice-grain girl, It’ll be different for you. LINDA MCMULLEN Twitter -- @LindaCMcMullen
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ARCHITECTS OF TOMORROW The fire burns feverishly in the pit of our stomach like a clarion call as we pave the path for millions. With silver dreams etched in our spines, Sweat that shines with apricity of a thousand summer suns. We are the warriors, the architects of tomorrow, With calligraphy of pain carved in our hallowed bones. We still have our calloused hands painted with dirt for kingdoms to come MEGHA SOOD Twitter -- @meghasood16 Instagram -- @meghasworld16
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PORTAL
THE ICE BEAR The cloud boy tried to carve a bear to resemble the mother he had not seen since birth. He tried as the soup boiled in the pot, and the pool grew a sister instead, her hair knotting in the vapor. A rain spatter seasoned the broth with the goods of Mina Peñasquito. And his sister began to teach him how to carve the bear better, and for the first time, he listened, even as his eyes glitched with fear. MONIQUE QUINTANA Twitter -- @quintanagothic Instagram -- @quintanadarkling
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THE HUNT Our arms are scarred with the cuts of internalized lies. Our children squeezed into boxes. We tune our ears to the sound of their cries And target the hunters of foxes. LAUREN THERESA Twitter -- @imlaurentheresa Instagram -- @imlaurentheresa
AWAKE Modern day wars were different, they said; But our tongues were still called swords, Sharp enough to cut through the system. Gunfires could not become your armour. SAKSHI RAVI MESHRAM Instagram -- @isakshiravi Twitter -- @isakshiravi
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PORTAL
MOTHER BLOOMED A WAR She was born at dusk when the palm trees were their most violet. She wanted to stop at the diner, but she didn’t, but she stared in the window long enough to see her reflection in the dishwater. She thought this gave her the sustenance she needed. She ran through owl roads so fast the wind reassembled vermin bones from pallets, and they saluted her with glow paws like party chalk. Her legs throbbed by the time she reached the city, all of her children waiting for her to rage them for their dishonor. MONIQUE QUINTANA Twitter -- @quintanagothic Instagram -- @quintanadarkling
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ANG WALANG PAG-ASA’Y WALANG TAKOT make way for the runners! / the way they shall run for the sun. for even i–waterborn & kissed in fire, and ever with these spears of gold– an angel who too shall be crucified into the flesh of this archipelago. you have taught me–o, Lord, Mother, Lover, and Masses– to be born brown and breastless is to be nothing but to die and die again. so let me be nothing. let me die and die again. take my name, and let me run for the sun. MARCO ABUYUAN-LLANES Twitter -- @redtamblot Instagram -- @redtamblot
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