Visual Jukebox: For Pain by Vriddhi Vinay

â&#x20AC;&#x2039; Table of Contents:

1. 100 Bells by Tarfia Faizullah 2. Everyone Knows That Line About Ogres and Onions, but Nobody Asks the Beast Why Undressing Makes Her Cry by Franny Choi 3. The Bee Meeting by Sylvia Plath 4. from citizens, I by Claudia Rankine 5. B by Sarah Kay 6. Reading to My Father by Jorie Graham 7. Home by Connie Shen 8. Denial by Warsan Shire 9. The Bride by Emi Mahmoud 10. Narwhal by Brynne Rebele-Henry 11. Apathy by Warsan Shire

12. Emptiness by Warsan Shire 13. Seppeku by Jenny Zhang

1) 100 Bells by Tarfia Faizullah With thanks to Vivee Francis. My sister died. He raped me. They beat me. I fell to the floor. I didn’t. I knew children, their smallness. Her corpse. My fingernails. The softness of my belly, how it could double over. It was puckered, like children, ugly when they cry. My sister died and was revived. Her brain burst into blood. Father was driving. He fell asleep. They beat me. I didn’t flinch. I did. It was the only dance I knew. It was the kathak. My ankles sang with 100 bells. The stranger raped me on the fitted sheet. I didn’t scream. I did not know better. I knew better. I did not live. My father said, I will go to jail tonight because I will kill you. I said, She died. It was the kathakali. Only men were allowed to dance it. I threw a chair at my mother. I ran from her. The kitchen. The flyswatter was a whip. The flyswatter was a flyswatter. I was thrown into a fire ant bed. I wanted to be a man. It was summer in Texas and dry. I burned. It was a snake dance. He said, Now I’ve seen a Muslim girl naked. I held him to my chest. I held her because I didn’t know it would be the last time. I threw no punches. I threw a glass box into a wall. Somebody is always singing. Songs were not allowed. Mother said,

Dance and the bells will sing with you. I slithered. Glass beneath my feet. I locked the door. I did not die. I shaved my head. Until the horns I knew were there were visible. Until the doorknob went silent.

2) Everyone Knows That Line About Ogres and Onions, but Nobody Asks the Beast Why Undressing Makes Her Cry by Franny Choi Her mouth is a stage sprouting cardboard trees. hat’s my motivation? she asks the W man reading in her bed. She runs headless through the mall and everyone shouts Hey Legs! No one mentions the girls gnawing each ankle to its core. Inside the beast is an apple holding a knife to its throat threatening to rot. So that’s what that noise was. She digs a claw into her ear. Pulls out a longship. Rides it to the bottom of the mine. She peels glue from her hands. The mine asks her about her mother and she laughs, which is funny because root vegetables don’t have mouths. Somewhere, miles above, the girl (or her mother)

is putting on gloves or tearing chicken from the bone. Line… Line… Somewhere, she is a cell remembering itself suddenly, late at night.

3) The Bee Meeting by Sylvia Plath Who are these people at the bridge to meet me? They are the villagers---The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees. In my sleeveless summery dress I have no protection, And they are all gloved and covered, why did nobody tell me? They are smiling and taking out veils tacked to ancient hats. I am nude as a chicken neck, does nobody love me? Yes, here is the secretary of bees with her white shop smock, Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck to my knees. Now I am milkweed silk, the bees will not notice. They will not smell my fear, my fear, my fear. Which is the rector now, is it that man in black? Which is the midwife, is that her blue coat? Everybody is nodding a square black head, they are knights in visors, Breastplates of cheesecloth knotted under the armpits. Their smiles and their voices are changing. I am led through a beanfield. Strips of tinfoil winking like people,

Feather dusters fanning their hands in a sea of bean flowers, Creamy bean flowers with black eyes and leaves like bored hearts. Is it blood clots the tendrils are dragging up that string? No, no, it is scarlet flowers that will one day be edible. Now they are giving me a fashionable white straw Italian hat And a black veil that molds to my face, they are making me one of them. They are leading me to the shorn grove, the circle of hives. Is it the hawthorn that smells so sick? The barren body of hawthon, etherizing its children. Is it some operation that is taking place? It is the surgeon my neighbors are waiting for, This apparition in a green helmet, Shining gloves and white suit. Is it the butcher, the grocer, the postman, someone I know? I cannot run, I am rooted, and the gorse hurts me With its yellow purses, its spiky armory. I could not run without having to run forever. The white hive is snug as a virgin, Sealing off her brood cells, her honey, and quietly humming. Smoke rolls and scarves in the grove. The mind of the hive thinks this is the end of everything.

Here they come, the outriders, on their hysterical elastics. If I stand very still, they will think I am cow-parsley, A gullible head untouched by their animosity, Not even nodding, a personage in a hedgerow. The villagers open the chambers, they are hunting the queen. Is she hiding, is she eating honey? She is very clever. She is old, old, old, she must live another year, and she knows it. While in their fingerjoint cells the new virgins Dream of a duel they will win inevitably, A curtain of wax dividing them from the bride flight, The upflight of the murderess into a heaven that loves her. The villagers are moving the virgins, there will be no killing. The old queen does not show herself, is she so ungrateful? I am exhausted, I am exhausted ---Pillar of white in a blackout of knives. I am the magician's girl who does not flinch. The villagers are untying their disguises, they are shaking hands. Whose is that long white box in the grove, what have they accomplished, why am I cold

4) from citizens, I by Claudia Rankine A woman you do not know wants to join you for lunch. You are visiting her campus. In the café you both order the Caesar salad. This overlap is not the beginning of anything because she immediately points out that she, her father, her grandfather, and you, all attended the same college. She wanted her son to go there as well, but because of affirmative action or minority something—she is not sure what they are calling it these days and weren’t they supposed to get rid of it?—her son wasn’t accepted. You are not sure if you are meant to apologize for this failure of your alma mater’s legacy program; instead you ask where he ended up. The prestigious school she mentions doesn’t seem to assuage her irritation. This exchange, in effect, ends your lunch. The salads arrive. / A

friend argues that Americans battle between the “historical self” and the “self self.” By this she means you mostly interact as friends with mutual interest and, for the most part, compatible personalities; however, sometimes your historical selves, her white self and your black self, or your white self and her black self, arrive with the full force of your American positioning. Then you are standing face-to-face in seconds that wipe the affable smiles right from your mouths. What did you say? Instantaneously your attachment seems

fragile, tenuous, subject to any transgression of your historical self. And though your joined personal histories are supposed to save you from misunderstandings, they usually cause you to understand all too well what is meant.

5) B by Sarah Kay If I should have a daughter, instead of "Mom," she's going to call me "Point B," because that way she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me. And I'm going to paint solar systems on the backs of her hands so she has to learn the entire universe before she can say, "Oh, I know that like the back of my hand." And she's going to learn that this life will hit you hard in the face, wait for you to get back up just so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air. There is hurt, here, that cannot be fixed by Band-Aids or poetry. So the first time she realizes that Wonder Woman isn't coming, I'll make sure she knows she doesn't have to wear the cape all by herself, because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I've tried. "And, baby," I'll tell her, don't keep your nose up in the air like that. I know that trick; I've done it a million times. You're just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house, so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else find the boy who lit the fire in the first place, to see if you can change him. But I know she

will anyway, so instead I'll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boots nearby, because there is no heartbreak that chocolate can't fix. Okay, there's a few that chocolate can't But that's what the rain boots are for, because rain will wash away everything, if you let it. I want her to look at the world through the underside of a glass-bottom boat, to look through a microscope at the galaxies that exist on the pinpoint of a human mind, because that's the way my mom taught me. That there'll be days like this.

(Singing) There'll be days like this, my momma said. When you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises; when you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you want to save are the ones standing on your cape; when your boots will fill with rain, and you'll be up to your knees in disappointment. And those are the very days you have all the more reason to say thank you. Because there's nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline, no matter how many times it's sent away. You will put the wind in win some, lose some. You will put the star in starting over, and over. And no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute, be sure

your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life. And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting, I am pretty damn naive. But I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily, but don't be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it. "Baby," I'll tell her, "remember, your momma is a worrier, and your poppa is a warrior, and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more." Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad things. Always apologize when you've done something wrong, but don't you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining. Your voice is small, but don't ever stop singing. And when they finally hand you heartache, when they slip war and hatred under your door and offer you handouts on street-corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.

6) Reading to My Father by Jorie Graham I come back indoors at dusk-end. I come back into the room with your now finished no-longer-aching no-longer-being body in it, the candle beside you still lit—no other

thrown, no, the worst is yet to come, no, it is 7:58 p.m., it is late spring, it is capital’s apogee, the flow’s, fruition’s, going’s, increase’s, in creases of matter, brainfold, cellflow, knowing’s pastime, it misfired, lifetime’s only airtime—candle says

light for now. I sit by it and look at it. Another in

you shall out yourself, out-

from the one I was just peering-out towards now, over

perform yourself, grow multiform—you shall self-identify as

rooftops, over the woods, first stars. The candle burns. It is so quiet you can hear it burn. Only I breathe. I hear that too. Listen I say to you, forgetting. Do you hear it Dad. Listen. What is increase. The cease of increase. The cease of progress. What is progress. What is going. The cease of going. What is knowing. What is fruition. The cease of. Cease of. What is bloodflow. The cease of bloodflow of increase of progress the best is over, is over-

still mortal—here in this timestorm—this end-of-time storm—the night comes on. Last night came on with you still here. Now I wait here. Feel I can think. Feel there are no minutes in you— Put my minutes there, on you, as hands—touch, press, feel the flying-away, the leaving-sticks-behind under the skin, then even the skin abandoned now, no otherwise now, even the otherwise gone. I lay our open book on you, where we left off. I read. I read aloud—

grove, forest, jungle, dog—the words don’t grip-up into sentences for me, it is in

what is needed now. It’s day. Read now, you’d say. Here it is then, one last time, the

pieces, news. I start again into the space above you—grandeur wisdom village—

tongue, street, wind—hornet—feeler runner rust red more—oh

There is no

read.

more—I hear my voice—it is so raised—on you—are you—refinery portal land scald difference—here comes my you, rising in me, my feeling your it, my me, increasing, elaborating, flowing, not yet released from form, not yet,

precedent for, far exceeds the ability of, will not to, cannot to,

adapt adapt

but not for a while yet, not yet, but not for much longer, no, much sooner than predicted, yes, ten times, a hundred times, all evidence

still will-formed, swarming, mis-

points

informed—bridegroom of spume and vroom.

towards.

I touch your pillowcase. I read this out to you as, in extremis, we await

What do I tell my child.

those who will come to fix you—make you permanent. No more vein-hiss. A masterpiece. My phantom father-body—so gone—how gone. I sit. Your suit laid out. Your silver tie. Your shirt. I don’t know

Day has arrived and crosses out the candle-light. Here it is now the silent summer—extinction—migration—the blue-jewelbutterfly you loved, goodbye, the red kite, the dunnock, the crested tit, the crossbilled spotless starling (near the top of the list) smokey gopher—spud-

formation. The two-headed eagle, the wasp—the named storms, extinct fonts, ingots, blindmole-made-

beaked snake, the feathered men walking sideways while looking

tunnels—oh your century, there in you, how it goes out—

ahead, on stone, on wall, on pyramid, in

how lonely are we aiming for—are we there

sacrifice—must I have already become when it is all still

yet—the orange-bellied and golden-shouldered parrots—

happening. Behind you thin machines that ticked and hummed until just now

I read them out into our room, I feel my fingers grip this

are off for good. What I wouldn’t give, you had said last night, for five more

page, where are the men who are supposed to come for you,

minutes here. You can’t imagine it. Minutes ago.

most of the ecosystem’s services, it says,

Ago. It hums. It checks us now, monitoring

will easily become replaced—the soil, the roots, the webs—the organizations

this minute fraction of—the MRI, the access-zone, the

of—the 3D grasses, minnows, mudflats—the virtual carapace—the simulated action of

aura, slot, logo, confession-

forest, wetland, of all the living noise that keeps us

satellites out there I took for stars, the bedspread’s weave, your being tucked-in—

company. Company. I look at you.

goodnight, goodnight—Once upon a time I say into my air,

al—I feel the hissing multiplying

Must I be this machine I am and I caress you now with the same touch become. This brain programming as I caress these keys. blood function, flowing beating releasing channeling. This one where I hold my head in my hands and the chip slips in and click I go to find my in-

7) Home by Connie Shen Rice fields, tadpoles flitting around my muddy feet—size 9s, too big for a Japanese girl. My grandmother threshing my dry hair into fat bushels with thickly knotted fists. Japanese school on Saturdays, flicking black ink onto thin parchment—one line can fell a tree into a book, turn a short day into an all-seeing eye. Doors that are not allowed to be closed and doors that are not allowed to be opened. The things that are covered by layers of dust are often the most valuable. The table only ever sits two, and yet there is room for many more than that—is friendship an American thing, too? Bad grades hidden under piles of vegetable peels and newsletters from the grocery store. Medicine cabinets with pictures of my grandfather inside of them. Two years carrying handfuls of underwear and toiletries up the hill to my mother’s house for the weekend—some solace. A figure in a pink bathrobe that wakes up to sneak cigarettes and take medicine—is it really alive? How can it take care of me when it can’t take care of itself? Three bookshelves; all mine, all beautiful. Lonely for so long until I met you. Sometimes I wake up at night and am surprised you, too, have not changed shapes when I was asleep. Kiss me until I belong to somewhere again.

8) Denial by Warsan Shire I tried to change. Closed my mouth more, tried to be softer, prettier, less awake. Fasted for 60 days, wore white, abstained from mirrors, abstained from sex, slowly did not speak another word. In that time, my hair, I grew past my ankles. I slept on a mat on the floor. I swallowed a sword. I levitated. Went to the basement, confessed my sins, and was baptized in a river. I got on my knees and said 'amen' and said 'I mean.' I whipped my own back and asked for dominion at your feet. I threw myself into a volcano. I drank the blood and drank the wine. I sat alone and begged and bent at the waist for God. I crossed myself and thought I saw the devil. I grew thickened skin on my feet, I bathed in bleach, and plugged my menses with pages from the holy book, but still inside me, coiled deep, was the need to know ... Are you cheating on me?

9) The Bride by Emi Mahmoud I met her on her wedding day Walked up to her, and smiled,

She sat on a porcelain throne beads and bows holding plastic flowers to the arm rests “are you alright?” I asked

No one ever talks to the bride

“I shouldn’t cry” she said, fingers catching tired tears

I thought it might be interesting to try something new,

“it’s fine to cry, you’ll be happy later”

Break tradition Henna patterns wrapped around her wrists climbed up her arms Spreading blossoms on tender flesh Her lips were a wilted crimson

“I shouldn’t cry” “how long have you known him” “I don’t” She was 17 years old, just graduated high school

Tilted ever so slightly to the side,

Her parents sent her to college because and educated girl can earn a bigger dowry

A perfect almost smile

But this mister didn’t mind a country girl

The first thing her mother taught her was to wipe the tears before the blood dries,

He grew up with her father

Shredded knees heal, but shame never fades away,

Didn’t need an intellectual, just someone who could feed the kids while he raised them

Don’t climb trees or ride bikes, That’s how little girls lose their virginity

She was a mail-order bride and her father licked the stamp

I cried

The middle aged used-to-be brides

How many weddings have I been to?

Explained it away

She just got off the plane twelve hours ago,

“she remembered her mother” they said

Barely left the airport and they already started dressing her

“brides always cry when they remember their mothers”

No time to take measurements so they pinned satin to her skin,

She’d have her fifth child by thirty

Tucked her in to the time tested wire frame

My parents protected me, from all the broken men

Our ancestors welded

And their flesh-eating fingers

If you put a girl in a steel corset you’ll never have to hear her scream

Said one day I’d find someone who could cook as well as my dad

And she was gorgeous

And who was almost as smart as my mom,

You could put anyone in her dress and it wouldn’t make a difference

Who’d hold me so close that I could breathe in his memories

We were guests of the groom and this was his wedding

when my parents about the bride and all we could do was hold her hand

No one knew her name

It killed me.

She only spoke Arabic

Tonight he’ll crush the henna blossoms on her wrists

No one knew her name She danced until the tears came

With the same hands the man next door threw at his wife last Thursday

The same fists that taught a daughter to keep her mouth shut Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll flatten the ridges of her spine And sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll hold her tongue Bite the screams as they come Wipe the tears before the blood dries No one ever talks to the bride

9)Narwhal by Brynne Rebele-Henry

and we call it a casting or maybe a cauldron,

Strips of her skin on a ceiling fan,

when we slit our fingers into hides and blackbirds

Red, her thick fleshy white, I make charts of its breath and the way it moves, Tack them upon her skin and the walls, quake. Ritalin fall and the birds give birth to tin cans.

and smear them into letters against the vacancies she drills into ports inside her arms and belly and now we're making etchings of its spit against our mouths and legs and stone

Shudder, its eyes and house are closed now.

and its breath reminds us of narwhal: their puncture

Fifty seconds, twenty-two pins and a brethren of snakes.

that tastes like iron ore and bloody lips.

Three scissors, an orange, and pliers. Its breath swims in our arteries like a three-legged dog and we pass our fingers through its throat and pretend it is speaking, moving inside our yellow. Dopamine summer. She put them into a car and siphoned gasoline, their breath and bodies made grids against our wrists. It leaves notes under your skin in flaps and we eat you in shreds, moving your gums and teeth and tongue through our rune mouths

10) Apathy by Warsan Shire So what are you gonna say at my funeral now that you’ve killed me? “Here lies the body of the love of my life whose heart I broke without a gun to my head. Here lies the mother of my children, both living and dead. Rest in peace my true love, who I took for granted, most bomb pussy. Who, because of me, sleep evaded. Her shroud is loneliness. Her God is listening. Her heaven will be a love without betrayal. Ashes to ashes, dust to side chicks.”

11)Emptiness by Warsan Shire She sleeps all day. Dreams of you in both worlds. Tills the blood, in and out of uterus. Wakes up smelling of zinc, grief sedated by orgasm, orgasm heightened by grief. God was in the room when the man said to the woman, "I love you so much. Wrap your legs around me. Pull me in, pull me in, pull me in." Sometimes when he'd have her nipple in his mouth, she'd whisper, "Oh, my God." That, too, is a form of worship. Her hips grind, pestle and mortar, cinnamon and cloves. Whenever he pulls out ... loss. Dear moon, we blame you for floods ... for the flush of blood ... for men who are also wolves. We blame for the night for the dark, for the ghosts.

12) Seppeku by Jenny Zhang

because Dad forgot the good cereal I chose to seppuku in the morning I seppuku to avoid washing my face in the afternoon I seppuku to avoid conversation I seppukued before bed to feel stuff I felt so much stuff I had to seppuku I felt so good seppukuing! I seppukued in front of racists who were like, “OH MY GOD THIS CHICK!” and my dead seppukued body was like, “uh huh!” I died for racism I died for white supremacy I died for yellow peril I seppukued three times and each time was more amazing than the last! I actually want to seppuku an entire country and encourage the galaxy to self-seppuku to prove the necessity of repetition that we must keep saying SEPPAKU and keep

SEPPAKUING if we are to survive if we are to be the animals we were before we were these exact beings WE ARE NOW and will always be

13) Novel by Arthur Rimbaud

I We aren't serious when we're seventeen. —One fine evening, to hell with beer and lemonade, Noisy cafés with their shining lamps! We walk under the green linden trees of the park The lindens smell good in the good June evenings! At times the air is so scented that we close our eyes. The wind laden with sounds—the town isn't far— Has the smell of grapevines and beer . . .

Our wild heart moves through novels like Robinson Crusoe, —When, in the light of a pale street lamp, A girl goes by attractive and charming Under the shadow of her father's terrible collar . . . And as she finds you incredibly naïve, While clicking her little boots, She turns abruptly and in a lively way . . . —Then cavatinas die on your lips . . . IV You are in love. Occupied until the month of August. You are in love. —Your sonnets make Her laugh. All your friends go off, you are ridiculous. —Then one evening the girl you worship deigned to write to you . . . !

II —There you can see a very small patch Of dark blue, framed by a little branch, Pinned up by a naughty star, that melts In gentle quivers, small and very white . . . Night in June! Seventeen years old! —We are overcome by it all The sap is champagne and goes to our head . . . We talked a lot and feel a kiss on our lips Trembling there like a small insect . . .

III

—That evening, . . . —you return to the bright cafés, You ask for beer or lemonade . . . —We're not serious when we are seventeen And when we have green linden trees in the park.

About the bitch who compiled this: Vriddhi Vinay is a writer and social activist born in 2000 and living in Pennsylvania. A South Indian femme, they write fiction, nonfiction, and poetry surrounding topics of feminism, LGBTQIP, mental illness, leftism, and the Asian-American identity. They are also a staff writer for Affinity Magazine and has been featured in publications like Rookie Magazine. More of their work can be found at vvwritesstuff.tumblr.com for published writing, and feel free to follow any of their social media accounts: Twitter (@scaryammu), Instagram (@scaryammu), and personal Tumblr (@criesincurry.tumblr.com). https://medium.com/@Vriddhi.Vinay?. Want Vriddhi to write for you? Contact them via their email: vriddhi.vinay@gmail.comâ&#x20AC;&#x2039;!