Night Reddened by Maple Leaves

Tonight the moon shines
in bittersweet luminescence
like a dying lamp. The light clambers
through the thin stretch of road
against the ripples of houses, diffusing
into the windows that are all shut tight.
The street grows a shadow,
one that becomes more vivid, when day
becomes night. An ajuma
sees the street lights hiss, suddenly
shutting out – gone. The woman
follows, turning her lamp off.
And a businessman, who halts his Kia
in front of his house, sees bland dust
winnowing through the street: empty
yet filled with everything it’s made up of.
He recalls a year ago, coming back to a home
that’d make one warm – the smell
of pajeon, softly golden, now
wistful, burnt. He sights a sandpiper
standing on an Aspen branch, probing
at the vastness of Yeonhui-dong
now swallowed by the darkness
almost muted, never slicing
through the silence. Soon, the bird’s wings
begin to flutter, taking off into nothing,
the man now alone. His eyes
trail along the slightly peeled hanji pasted
on the door of his hanok, remembering
the wailing noises of his children
running down Jeungga-ro reddened
by fallen maple leaves.

By Michelle Park

Michelle Park is a 15 year old, high school freshman currently living in the Philippines. Many of her poems are about nature and her memories from her childhood. She loves to eat food, and during her free time, she likes to play soccer, dance, and listen to music.

SALVATION ARMY

At the Diggy Bins,
nickname ours, we sought survivors    
amidst all manner

of matter    heaps of worn
stuffed animals     knick-knacks     toys severed
from larger sets       tangled cords        straggling
small kitchen appliances     dumped     directly     from donation   boxes    
into wooden bins      dilapidated     stretched     in     long rows       
broken glass         compounding      chaos       the rough       treatment      of it all

my mom’s teeth
were a map; her sixth sense
of    significance         winding paths    to floating islands of
value     chameleon-ed     in the accumulation—

figurines     pottery     jewelry       worth up to sixty times           what you’d pay      easy
if you could recognize     the faded artist signatures

the gentle markings of validity
how real gems hit different
on your teeth
than cubic zirconia.

There is nothing more useful than knowing
what to love.

This is how I learned—
my mom digging for a diamond
in the rough, furtively tapping
a tarnished jewel

to her canine, listening
for its final word.

By Ginger Harris

Biography:

Ginger Harris is an emerging writer who lives in Denver. She has a bachelor’s degree in English Literature from the University of Wisconsin, Madison, where she also studied creative writing. You can find more of her poetry on Instagram @ayla.poetry

ON BELONGING

Part 1

How I loathe phone calls:
“S-as-in-Sam, V-as-in-Victor.”

The drought of the vowel a name hinged on an “er” a name of consonants
so quiet, in a world where vowels are louder a soft and choking L
a carrot above the Š, sings “shhh” Sometimes, I spell my own name wrong too
At the NHS induction ceremony, I, the speaker, was introduced “cervical”

Did I tell you? My father’s mail comes in under “Fzerko?”
the 800-number could not pronounce a name so quiet
instead, gifted him four new letters.

Part 2

I am “Anna Grace” after my grandmother and God,

how graceful the palindrome of the virgin’s mother, Anna, the paradox
of a Gen-Z camwhore.

Last month, I made $250 on OnlyFans.
I’ve got dick in my DM’s asking for $50 ratings And cum soaked panties in bubble mailers
And latex skirts and thigh high fishnet socks.

I changed my surname this year. I am now Anna Šverclová.

The Ová from “ovum,”
In Czech, meaning “belonging to a man”

Ironic, is it? that I should choose belonging in a line of the un-belonged

Did you know? After the fall of the USSR,
Newfound capitalism made czech women its products. Have you seen the videos?
a glory hole, a disembodied vulva, a mouth, a camera behind the wall.
Have you seen the gnarled smile in a 200 Koruna? A Catholic,
a bearded man allowed his face?

A currency to remind
that whatever is owned is also owned by him. A body, A pornstar, A Mail-order bride
In the hands of a catholic, with his hands on the bible, cleansing the devil in her loins

Tell me how sorry, tell me you’ll save me Tell me, knuckle deep in my pussy,
That there’s other ways to find money I am Anna Šverclová.
The Ová from “ovum,”
In Czech, meaning, “belonging”

The truth is, I am least owned
when I live in your boyfriend’s phone.

My boss is my self, my product is renewable.

Make it pre- or post- traditional.
Make it a reclamation, make it an ovum
inside out, a quarter tied to a line down a vending machine.

By Anna Šverclová