FREQUENT OCCASIONS — ESTHER PARK

On the frequent occasion I ponder off into different realities. Then mourn those thoughts.

Those attractions.

“What could have been” is my middle name.

Just kidding.

Due to tireless tradition, it was created by my paternal grand father.

But I am grateful that at least it was cute. Jee-Ae. Look at me, veering off again.

In line with the nature of previous internalizations, it took an eon to accept my daydreaming.

But look at me now.

These frequent occasions are what I live for.

UNTITLED— ZEYUAN HU

Zeyuan identifies as queer gender-nonconforming chinese.

SELECTED POEMS — SO JUNG SHIN

SJ identifies as Korea-born, Indonesia-raised queer.

Women Like Her

The gentle fold of her skirt in the cold

Small pointed feet in flowered shoes

She sits in the back of the house silent and resigned.

The woman my people are ignoring hidden from the golden days of the three kingdoms obsolete during the birth of the tiger is almost forgotten.

A son is born

Bless his wretched mother

For he has brought great fortune

He has chosen money

On his ceremonial first birthday

Nimble, sacred hands grab the gold

He drinks up the bright cheers and laughter

Climbs up the thousand steps to conquer the next kingdom while his sister is nowhere to be seen.

All a woman is are eyes and lids and eyelids pinched nose bridge a cupid’s bow too large for an angel and lips lined with feigned delicacy plastic V and then the flowers of her breasts too many veins on her leaf scars the pour of her belly drips of nectarine

“Do you want to come home with me?”

None of her voice

Blooming with hibisci

Bursting with strength

She is nothing but a used heart Has nothing behind her name except that of her husband her father

Who is she?

That woman is a god.

They cannot move these ladies of the morning calm are not given the twitch of eyelids

God is dead. They are given no answers forced to take the hard role as mother and wife. Women like her have their hearts bleeding to death.

Pomegranate Seeds

carnal hunger rests on a stomach, a drive to chase and hunt scavenge and seed gnaw on a ripe fruit of seeds rip and tear the fleshy skin piling seeds pressure under teeth crunch and crackle euphoric in liberation who am i? skin on skin a drip of red down my skin ooze with juice rest my skin against the earth from which it came i came down under dirt under nails back to earth mother reborn

UGLY THINGS — ANONYMOUS

the slices of your love are not scarlet and silky or crimson or ruby or unfettering or even beautiful. they are gashes of dried brown and red. deep, but unseen and everlasting.

not to be mistaken for an undying sunlight falling on my melanin skin but more like a rotten, and somehow unmolded big mac on the side of the pavement which may be rejected by vultures and doesn’t decompose but just sits there for all of time. for, how must I turn this grim plight into a graceful metaphor that equates darkness to the beauty of my grandmother’s iris as a galaxy of constellations and fluctuating supernovas with the strength of a thousand ballerinas, dancing among her shadows? the harsh realities are too sorrow to turn into a lesson, an art, or a story. instead, I must write ugly things. tales of sorrow, betrayal, distress; things that cannot ripen or blossom, for the chaos of my mind cannot be filtered, through a Large Water Pro Brita 5000 so I just sit and write ugly things.