59th Floor Spectator

the wind drools on my skin

tugging at the sando                of my father

his teeth falling                          into dusts of almond

shells snapping through          the white flesh

he sits

crowing

the dawn blotting behind him,

the threads of night weaving   into splotches

of yellow bleaching the stalks of buildings.

Outside the streets are quiet.

His back a mural

of white fibers strung onto brown

withering           away from the Hiligaynon chatters
in the room,                                 soaking

in the stillness             of the streets

drowning

in them

By Tara Tulshyan

Biography:

Tara Tulshyan is a sophomore living in the Philippines. Her works have appeared or are forthcoming in The Heritage Review, The Resigned Arts Collective, and K’in Literary Journal.