---

---

It’s been twelve years since I believed 

I couldn’t kiss 

girls without being struck 

down by Moroni’s gold trumpet. 

You told me waiting until I was eight

to get baptized meant it was my own choice

as if eight-year-olds can make a decision 

about eternity. At the same age I was 

confused when you asked me to change 

out of my tank top and cover 

my shoulders because my body belongs

to men, and I needed to save

them from my tempting flesh. I cloaked 

myself in modesty and learned to cover 

up my shame. My goodnight prayers 

were passages of the Book of Mormon, studied 

through the dim light of my lava lamp,

confirming to myself and God I was worthy 

of salvation. When my parents divorced, 

you laid out your unwelcome mat.

Said you wanted me, but decided 

you didn’t want the stain 

of my parents’ failed marriage splashed 

across the pews like wine spilled 

on an altar cloth – so it was just easier 

not to meet my eyes anymore.

Thank you for your unwelcome mat.

For giving me the opportunity to doubt 

my faith and turn toward the benevolence 

of my own angelic light. To question 

the lines on those brass plates 

and the doctrine made up by you 

old white men judging from atop your gilded 

steeple. I’ve since seen through the veil 

of your omnipresent bullshit, and came

out shouting my truth louder 

than the testimonies poured out at the pulpit.

I wrote out my own family proclamation – 

anointed myself with a family full of 

fierce feminist, polyamorous queers.        

Now at 28 I still hesitate at the coffee 

shop to decide which flavor 

to add to my morning latte. I give

myself the grace to forgo any eternal

decisions. I’ve never felt closer to God 

than now when I am wholly me –

Wholly me with my bodily temple 

plastered in stained glass tattoos.

Wholly me and my eternally unfiltered 

mouth, seasoning my sentences 

with swears, never hesitating

to speak up and never seeking redemption 

for my blasphemic proclamations.

Wholly me and my sacramental

wine Wednesdays, with my radiant

purple tarot cloth spread out over my altar,

singing psalms to the moon. 

Wholly me and my sacred tenderness,

wrapping myself in the embrace 

of my loves, their blushes loud enough to 

drown out Moroni’s gold trumpet. 

Holy me.

a day spent at the beach

right after when Egrets infringe; a span of wings permeates in peripatetic nothingness;

Pelagic- An adjective related to open sea seemed far more relatable to a story;

gospel calling; a soliloquy; a passive surge of condolence melting in the ocean—

shores are romantic lovers accepting each thing that travel along the silver lines; staggering undulation both saccharine and poison; 

caprice composed in shells; dissonance in carcasses; eloquence in luminous planktons; waves tend to follow coast with a screech so as people;

A husband cutting broccolis for our last breakfast; fox faces staring through rimmed glasses mapping over skin folds between a women’s thigh—pointing towards anchor world drops on these spots and so as him;

I swim inside my body intending to know—how wind escapes the mouth of a non-aquatic mammal; through the zero origins where the axes of a system intersect of this floating parchment flows a plane—a perfect square—square spaces as significant as the presence of curry leaves in South Indian cuisine; strictly two cardamom pods crushed for grandmothers masala tea recipe; the mandala of temple architecture impedes strength of a sitting idol; 

when my mother asks to bring two glasses of rice—I do; saffron tinted stories hover in our kitchen; inside the dough, her fingers sculpt tombs; guiding through the remnant; black patches beneath her eyes meticulously mentioning about boundaries; fancy fences standing tall at the edges; before the kewra water could delude our tongue she hands over a present brought to us by lineage— the porcelain full of ghost pepper

---

weather report

Between palms hold the spine—unfurl it;

read through them; speak a word—

watch the papillae weigh a landscape;

somewhere inside the cavity of the throat—

from a hearth, the forger pulls a machete and 

acres on the Earth gets wounded.

for the shores oceans are loquacious entity—

venting into pebbles; gates open for shells; 

waves opus—the tattering fins 

sonata; decorative velour oil-sludge; 

a floating chunk of cities and the lull of sea creatures;

among sleeping men khamak reverberates; dotara strum;

Bauls(folk men) sing about icicles loose tapering over birches;

in between; stuck after calving ice shelf or sheet

while we were busy stuffing cotton into ears—

kept this world architecture on 

oracles; elephant tusks ; 

horns and stolen furs

away from our children.

---

If you slit the throat of my mother

If you slit the throat of my mother

only blackbirds would leave her chest;

incoherent sound clearing the gut of the trumpet

 million flaps in the sky; besides the river

from an urn ashes ingress air; grey sieve filters

particularly this one from rest; 

quaint ornamental flower my mother’s heart slumped on 

the poking fingers of a tree, suspending between 

how maternal side had fortuned her ways and her bottom

decent landing over swing tied to Mahogany by her husband

puerile, isn’t it? if only you could know the backdrop;

---

Act I (thinning of my mother’s bone)

at the age of 10: along with cloves, ground black pepper; cinnamon pods

grandma grind her in a mortar; 

for grandma, she was a holy cow to be milked and worshipped on goddess Name.

Act II ( vermilion )

at the age of 17: her husband’s family members chilly sharp tongue;

cutting action; my father’s ignorance;

her paled body; roasted home and silly vermilion celebration.

---

each night; onto her lap, my hair-tendrils met the lake; 

blue froth ripples; shivering mountain; melting roundness of a moon, floating sage green in sombre subterranean; tiny stone throw to break silence ; through her ribs–my excavation–the valley and across it; puncturing dogs bark, high pitched growl and a try to get heard. 

when; I was young, she asked me to find her in winds whistle over mosses; tatter of wilting loblolly bay and often closed my eyes with both her hands and talked departure in sunset’s amber glow; dew-drenched Lili cha; cacophonous laburnum twiddle; earthy smell;

until; only after 10 years ; 

beside the lake; the willow bow

weeps and

bury her.

---

jewel speaks to us.

The water, I can not dare to touch is probity

broiled in wind; In north raising from the Himalayan locks of Shiva 

and in south batter through the gut of  Krishna; 

humidity divulge the guttural of spirited beings;

for years the dulcet of their anklets were eaten by mist;

the gallops of their critter lisped by battle torn-air.

let’s make the miniature of a monstrous theme when spring jostles 

the flame-trees; after men’s head cleaned by swords;

along heads gleaned wives were looted from skin to skin.

After thousand years;

Think of loot turning gold, amber-lush tailored zardozi, carnelian silk for 

bride; even letters in her mouth are red—

they say red is a colour of fortune so as it meant to bleed—

the breathless flight, listening to hymn of machete besides the neck 

to handle vengeance to their lord of tomorrow, to nest unfledged darkness 

for nesting. 

beneath vermilion, glossy veil is a buffet exchanging spring for winter chisel

; a glass of pounds for diamond-dusted steel blade;

to cut gem and glue it on the top of groom’s turban; 

to get blinded by its charm and status; 

to let the grip of bangle tighten on her wrist and watch her wag-tail on each bone 

---

thrown over her face.

on command, the Mangalsutra—a bridle that makes house trot on her canter; the holy quivering bones, Tumeric, scented Heena get washed in the pool of body,

this pool of body take a mouthful bite from an ocean;

consume toxic fishes from all wrong places and 

an out of season the doe gives birth

while sun its vermillion glow and bindi sink between eyebrows.

Shilpa Bharti, pen name- Rose was welcomed by the world in the year-1996 . She holds a BA degree from Jawaharlal Nehru university; new delhi and currently  serves as the editor in chief of the Open-leaf press review literary journal dedicated to haiku/haibun/free verse/ art. She had her work published in failed haiku journal; poetrypea journal of haiku and senryu; creatrix haiku journal; neo literary journal; narrow road literary journal(young voices slot); ode to queer journal; howling press; forthcoming work includes poems in the SAHITYA AKADEMI and Her Artwork has managed to appear in several art journals.

---

Catch the Wind

Love is born through the absurdity of Knowing another

Or rather– the endeavor of Knowing another

Which remains forever unfulfilled.

Perhaps that is the allure of Love–

Like a hamster running on its wheel

Moving nowhere in time and space

Love keeps Knowing just out of arm’s reach

With every step we take, Love takes two

So we run

With an earnest hope in our hearts that someday

The wheel under our feet will spin fast enough

To grasp this coveted Knowing

And allow us to lift the veil of our lover

Revealing the resplendent fullness

Of their being

---

sanguine seance

i still believe

in aimless walks around the city

in serendipitous encounters

with strangers and friends

in divine repetition of numbers

and bookstore couches

in leaving the phone at home and running up hills

as the most e  ective method of “do not disturb”

i still believe

in disappearing

in mystery

in unrequited love and yearning

in baring my soul to another

without re  ection or trepidation

in 2am drunken professions of desire

as a primary love language

in soul-stirring insight only shared

with a friend and a journal

and whispering my secrets

to the moon

i still believe

in real Love

and the way it shatters under your bare feet

digging so deeply into your fragile flesh

that you must learn to get off your fucking couch

and walk again

i still believe

in Loss

as a catalyst for nurture

and a mirror

for all you have yet to lose

i still believe

like a child with a loose tooth

or my father chasing the

American Dream:

anxiously, hastily,

and with endearing delusion

to   ll an empty cavern

where Hope was once held

and now lost

---

just for today

Don’t just trace

the contours of a broken mind!

Scribble in a footnote or two!

Fill it with wet paint

sticky, sweet chemicals of

white and blue

so that I may focus on being a human

for longer!

I am at your service like a rabid dog

anxiously, viciously,

resentfully,

and without desire

I strike myself so I may feel what I’ve inflicted

a dutiful, obligatory penance

for the hurt I carried

and let spill onto lovers and friends

Perhaps we can mend next time

I’m in town

Oh—

How tightly I’ve clung to promise and

redemption!

How often I’ve let lovers hold smoky words

to shattered mirrors! But no—

I will feel good about things

Just for today

Write a poem about happier things

Just for today

Unravel the asphyxiation and breathe

And remind myself of mountaintops

Just for today

I am a magician

Holding onto hope to suspend death

Just for today

Just for today

Just for today

---

---

BURN

When an arsonist

haunted our street

my lip trembled

with helplessness.

The first fire, a rosemary bush

outside the house 

of an outspoken neighbor

big white beard and pot-bellied, 

picture a grizzled Santa Claus.

The first time we spoke

he told me about 

the ex-son-in-law he almost murdered,

beating him 

and driving his car until the tire 

was an inch from his head,

before his daughter talked him down.

He didn’t tell this story by way of threat

but as a lesson about loyalty.

He, the good father,

me, who would understand 

if I had a daughter.

My son, not yet three, 

recognized this change in me 

after the second fire.

He started crying when I stared off, 

mid-play,

envisioning

how close the sage bush was

to the tree

that’s branches scraped the side of our house.

The third fire, a sage bush. 

The homeowner said it must’ve been 

the American flag he flew.

That offends some people, you know.

The flag didn’t catch fire, only the bush

before a neighbor spotted it

I didn’t sleep.

Like those newborn days

when my son cried all the time.

Or when he didn’t cry and

I woke in a terror, and fled crib-side

to put a hand to his chest.

I felt the rise and fall 

to know he was breathing.

I didn’t sleep.

I peered through windows. 

Because I heard noises

or because I didn’t.

The fourth fire caught a series of bushes 

side-by-side

two doors down.

Flashing red and white lit

our bedroom wall,

woke my son to peer through blinds, too.

So I walked the street, 

silent and still,

kitchen fire extinguisher in hand.

Equal parts to put out any blaze I came upon

and to demonstrate 

to anyone watching through windows

I was not the arsonist.

And—

I don’t expect I’ll have a daughter,

but I understand.

In the half-baked fantasy

of catching a kid playing 

with a lighter fluid and matches

at another shrubbery.

I imagine spraying ammonium phosphate to blind him

bludgeoning him 

with the aluminum outside 

until the red paint chips

into the arsonist’s blood.

I don’t have a daughter,

but I understand

what it is to burn.

---

THE SKY IS DARK

I had visions of fireworks,

the romance of thigh on thigh,

sweet skin sticky with July humidity.

Seated in the back of a pickup truck

staring at a sky

ablaze,

then dark again.

Close my eyes. It’s darker

and I might see anything. 

But now we play a game

of fireworks or gunshots,

though neither of us know the 

rhythm, echo, or timbre to listen for

quite right.

But we are 

intertwined at least.

Turn the television louder,

watch its light flicker

on her face

as her breath settles

as my eyelids grow heavy again.

No further explosions,

no sirens.

Good.

But through the smudged window

the sky is dark

and anything might happen.

---

POSES

Porn performers learn

never to forget

the camera.

Mindful of light and shadows

And that intimacies like hair 

falling to the wrong side

can obscure

their expression.

And I think back to sitting on the floor

college days

turning into the lens

with an idiot grin, double thumbs up,

subtle flex of my biceps.

Stacy the photographer’s sigh.

I forgot you always pose for pictures.

I don’t know if she took the photo

I don’t think I’ve ever seen it.

I want to hold you

the way a photograph 

holds a moment

candidly.

Michael Chin was born and raised in Utica, New York and currently lives in Las Vegas with his wife and son. He is the author of three full-length short story collections and his debut novel, My Grandfather’s an Immigrant and So is Yours came out from Cowboy Jamboree Press in 2021. Chin won the 2017-2018 Jean Leiby Chapbook Award from The Florida Review and Bayou Magazine’s 2014 James Knudsen Prize for Fiction. Find him online atmiketchin.com and follow him on Twitter @miketchin.

^Plum

I notice her purple nails 

maybe aubergine,

not dark enough 

to be eggplant. 

The color of lavender-soaked fig.

We spend our time together

cleaning other people’s houses, 

rooms with violet walls

that,

if they could speak,

would confess 

all the times

I’ve wanted to beg for her. 

I want to tell her 

she is the plum

I crave 

to sink my teeth into. 

A fresh, beautiful bruise

that only hurts 

when I remember 

I am not welcome 

in a heart 

not meant for me.

---

^{If I Weren’t Bound}

I have never mistaken 

his shyness

for longing, 

short answers

code

for holding back 

his begging for me, 

on his knees, 

a position of willing

while scrubbing 

and scraping

everything unclean. 

His heavy morning eyes

have never  before revealed 

each time he’s wanted

to feel the imprint  

of my lips

on his. 

Now,

I notice the sapphire  

of his gaze, 

where it lands

when he looks at

the buried treasure 

map of my body,  

the breathless restraint 

to not scream

from the tip of his tongue 

that he loves–

thunderstorms

and the sound 

of horses galloping. 

His honeyed words

stick to the caverns 

of my heart, 

take me by the hand

to secrets

I can’t confess.  

If I weren’t bound

within the threads 

of until death do we part,

I don’t know how clean

this house would get.

---

^{This Already Wrecked Heart}

A nervous, trembling wind

that could break 

fragile things:

this already wrecked heart

that beats 

to the rhythm 

of your voice

saying my name. 

I can only touch your skin

through the dust I collect,

the discarded parts of you

no one else finds 

beautiful. 

This naked,

exposed wound lust, 

this tormenting, 

twisted, tangled 

love,

why are you taking 

up a canyon’s worth of  space

if we only know shallow-creek smalltalk 

and shy smiles, 

quick laughter

and awkward eye contact? 

Why do I full body ache 

for your hands 

to learn each part of me, 

                                     in every space we occupy together?

How can you have the audacity 

to get stuck in my teeth, 

to be the fury 

in the carved pathways of every thought? 

Is there a reward you’re receiving 

for being this haunting, 

the first ever living ghost to possess? 

Where do you get off?

---

My grandmother was a great cook.

Because of that,

a crumple of tinfoil in the freezer

holds the last thing I have

from her hands.

Her cheese borag recipe:

• 1 package frozen phyllo dough, thawed
• 1 pound jack cheese, shredded
• 2 cubes butter (salted), melted
• 1 large egg, beaten

She stopped putting parsley in them

when my dad stopped 

liking green—one of those sacred

traditions that only changes

for youngest sons;

one of those simple traditions

(inherent, dreamlike),

that the hands of eldest daughters

keep when the mind draws

a blank— 

She clears the counter (except 

for bowls of water and butter, a greased pan)

and unfolds sheets of pastry,

cutting it into thick strips,

“Don’t drag the knife, it’ll tear.”

She dips her fingers in water and pulls

apart the stack by ply,

brushing each with butter, 

“Don’t press, it’ll tear.”

She spoons the filling on the end, edges meet

and fold into a triangular parcel,

“Don’t overstuff, it’ll tear.”

Top with extra butter and bake— 

350°, hotter? 10 minutes, longer?

“Don’t think, it’ll tear.”

—until the phyllo flakes and

butter pools and browns.

She knew she was dying two days

before the virus put her 

lungs in the hospital, 

before I saw sparse notes and blanks

on her recipe cards.

Aluminum gleans in the frostbite.

Cold air swaddles my face

as I close the freezer door.

---

A syrupy sap that falls as your last attempt to break your knees and branch out

Buds of warm teeth sprout and stick to your cracked lips

Stuck in the sugar; sap gathers and melts-

Over the crest of flesh. 

Water flows and streams under eyelids creased. 

Under harsh vowel sounds jammed in whispers. 

Under the truth of the soil. 

Dawn breaks and syllables glitter in the light, filling in the cracks of your skin. 

Quiver and push the clouds away to warm your bare blue juniper knees. 

Long wavering tendons and nails crystallized- catalysts to broken bones in wrists. 

Clutching, panting hollow breaths beneath the solid chest. 

Exhuming the amber locked away in the steel you bear to breathe. 

Force your fingers through the barren dirt dawn and impart the sticky heart; the sun rises. 

So you may sleep eternally. 

---

DEATH IN MASQUERADE

I remember my aunt who lives in the Crown’s yard.

Yes, that aunt—the dilettante of good manners,

whose words make God’s brain careen in his skull.

She is the poison in the antidote. She is death—

death in masquerade. She is a relentless wraith,

feeding on that which she does not possess, so as

to have dominion over it. Volcanoes have died to

give life to her rage. She forgets that we are 

nothing more than perpetual gravediggers—we

who are born to bury and to be buried. Her baltic

bowls of beans and soups, drown the vigor of

interned children. She is the dagger that

peregrinates an unbroken body, waiting to thread

through skin, rib, heart, blood, and soul. The

corporeal and incorporeal are hemmed to form a

gory trapeze, fashioned only to condemn

tranquility to the netherworld—from where it will

swing back to earth, to be reborn as perpetual injury. 

---

---

MY BODY IS AN INTERLINK

You are a vacuum 

within an abyss.

Neither of us truly 

knew what that meant,

until I watched you 

metamorphose from nothing

to nothingness.

This blue abyss tunnels

out from the world

and into my mouth,

fusing with my oesophagus—

‘tis the officiation of a forced

marriage, between the silver

dagger and the milk spot quilt.

My body is an interlink—

a meeting place for the 

living and the underliving.

It has no more rooms to let.

I have lost my soluble tongue,

and can no longer offer 

melodious oblations to Oya.

The wilting rose petal

imprisoned betwixt my cheeks,

only reverberates the 

protest of a deprived belly.

---

My poem that I translated from Persian to English, written on the margins of Fernando Pessoa’s
“Manipulations of Sensibility” in his book, Always Astonished:

---

Night (شب)

My heart slowly beats against the night

The alleys

The trees

Silent.

My eyes can comprehend the darkness

But,

I’m free

And in love with the night…

---

قلبم برابر شب می تپد

کوچه ها

درخت ها

خاموش

چشمام تاریکی را درک می کند

اما

من آزادم

عاشق شب شدم