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My white bread mother is sliced thin.
She sidles from room to room on feet of soft crust.
Sometimes I don’t hear her when she approaches;
I am reading something, I look up and
there she is, staring at me
with her blank preformed face.
ten years old when the ocean spat beasts and they
walked the world with strides the size of cities and i hid
i coward-cowered from the noise of it and the dark
I am not speaking English now.
The lightest word will alter our trajectory.
The slightest touch, and another marvel
of translation blows itself to feathers
Mary Oliver’s “The Uses of Sorrow” opens with the parenthetical “(in my sleep I dreamed this poem)“—I could say the same for Arsenika: the magazine grew out of a literal dream that then became steadily more concrete. Issue 0 collects a range of poetry and prose to give a guideline for what Arsenika is looking […]
Nadia found the ocean behind the Swedish assholes’ couch during her weekly cleaning.
My dearest Anatolia: Before you left this world, you asked me to celebrate the dissolution of your body.
Two seconds shy of
clockwork heart capricious,
you haven’t spoken
since February or Ganymede.