ISSUE 1
Rian
I DO NOT KNOW WHEN OBJECTS STARTED SCREAMING,
but I remember the texture of its curling and the duration of its punishment. Tearing off the bark of a tree would emit a whimper, and driving became a chorus of wails from concrete pores. I had never yearned for silence until my father leapt into it, embraced by the roar of his engine. Slipping under the scene of scattered metal was a faintly-volumed sipping: blades of grass consuming his crimson. Nature was taking us back, and I could only witness her hunger.
Sister, break my bread for me. I don’t sleep anymore. Instead, I walk. My feet drag callouses into the soil as I listen my way into the heart of the forest, coveted by the appetite of shadows. Finding approval in my nature, a string of groans lures me into an opening in the thicket; the sun bleeds through holes in hanging indigo as a silver plate melts into the horizon. No space for pondering. I sink myself into its solution and let my pores widen for sound. She kisses my innards where they bruise and mimics the sensation of fullness.
I have been spared from punishment. For now. She whispers to me of Parisian delicacies, thin limbs tasting of sweetness, and the emptiness inside her. I carry it between the lining of my stomach when I feign eating at the dinner table. Sister, when did you become so plump? Grinding rocks between molars for reprieve, I think I should give into silence as well, but I know she will not allow it. When the crust of the world breaks, I will be the last of its cravings.
OMITTING
This is not the space for me. This is
hands wet, feet marooned, back bent
​
into obedience. Have you been listening
to the news? Anchors in blue depths
​
told me Pluto brings back news from its
banishment, and humanity only sighs
​
at discovery: what a shame this is tile
floors gone cold, twilight absence,
​
the silence between greeting and
parted lips, fingers made for plucking
​
evidence of intimacy from gums
discarding affection into the barrels of
​
guns to be shot into the black of ribs.
Tuck your hands, then I will know this is
​
when I barter for the lining of oak trees —
thirty cents for a bit of your skin, mister, but
​
do not question me when I lift my eyes to
redwood, my grace drifting towards how
​
aching bulges outwards and sinks into itself,
pulsing to the breath of wet wind. Watch
​
bark fold hands into innocence in the
shape of feathers crimsoned by sight, and
​
realize that I, too, once gained from loss.
From behind the ivory bars of a bird cage,
remind me of what this is.
Rian is a student located in Illinois. She is an IYWS and Kenyon Young Writers alum.