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
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
By Tara Tulshyan
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.