Never Had There Been A Time When Sound, Color, And Feeling Hadnt Been Intertwined, When A Dirty, Rolling

Never had there been a time when sound, color, and feeling hadn’t been intertwined, when a dirty, rolling bass line hadn’t induced violets that suffused him with thick contentment, when the shades of certain chords sliding up to one another hadn’t produced dusty pastels that made him feel like he was cupping a tiny, golden bird. It wasn’t just music but also rumbling trains and rainstorms, occasional voices, a collective din. Colors and textures appeared in front of him, bouncing in time to the rhythm, or he’d get a flash of color in his mind, an automatic sensation of a tone, innate as breathing.

The Leavers by Lisa Ko. 2017. 

One morning, eleven-year-old Deming Guo’s undocumented mother Polly leaves for her job at a nail salon. She never comes home. Deming is adopted by two white professors who rename him “Daniel Wilkinson” and attempt to mold him into a truly “American” boy. Lyrically poignant and bitingly raw, Lisa Ko’s debut novel The Leavers exhumes themes of family and community, intergenerational emotion, and the oft-erased brutality of the immigrant experience. 

Told from the perspective of a growing child, it is at once a bitterly tender bildungsroman and a reflection of structural sociopolitical faultlines in a jarringly torn family. Though Deming’s tale could have been overlaid with heavy themes of immigration and despairing politics, Ko centers the narrative around the child who’s lost a parent—at the end of the day, the perplexity, gravity, and irreconcilable belief of being left and lost is the focus of this elastic, penetrative story.

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(via sinethetamagazine)

on having a boyfriend with OCD

He was always turning the lights on and off,

opening and closing the door,

counting as he went: thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty.

Eventually I had to tell him that if he kept opening the door,

we’d have a whole bunch of house intruders

before the night was through. He responded by trying to kiss me once,

then ended up kissing me twenty-three times, then once more

for an even twenty-four. Then he had to redo two of them

because “our mouths hadn’t been quite aligned.”

Some nights I’d wake up with the moon soaking the bedsheets,

listening to the sound of him repeating the word “fuck”

over and over: he’d stubbed his toe on the bathroom doorway

but couldn’t stop swearing once he’d started.

I fell back asleep after staring at my pillow

until the floral pattern burned into my eyelids,

dreamt the two of us went to an opera but instead of beautiful,

tremulous voices rising high into the air,

two sopranos were singing “fuck” to the tune of La Traviata.

He apologizes the next day, says the new medication

made him feel like shit all the time so he took himself off it;

I respond that it probably made him feel that way

because it was working.

Two days later the ambulance comes and takes him away;

he’d accidentally cut one of his wrists with the steak knife

chopping carrots for stew

but couldn’t have just one cut wrist;

he had to have two.

god bless the shape your head leaves in my pillow

Neil Hilborn, from Our Numbered Days

This and much, much more in Our Numbered Days!

(via buttonpoetry)

This nation calls my grandmother a crime, but there are not enough hands to wring the blood out of your name, America always reaching for a gun, America rechristening wombs into bomb shelters.

Kristin Chang, “Women of No Nation,” published in Teen Vogue (via bostonpoetryslam)

eighteen

is the taste of asphalt and blood, school skirts tucked a little too high above the knees, and we keep running, keep our heads tilted towards skylight; film reel of blurry faces and dreamscapes that pass by too quickly, but i still remember what your hands feel like, soft, we are soft — but not broken yet; tell me, will playgrounds ever feel magical again? hour-long bus rides in the rain, golden-hour glow spilling across our faces, our tiredness; paper memories that will soon gather dust, you a roseate memory i shelter in between the creases; paths never crossing again, empty late-night trains heading home, ghosts feeding on nostalgia, someday we will return —

inspired by @dhritspoetry ♡

                              I want to leave                               no one behind.

To keep & be kept.

                             The way a field turns                              its secrets

into peonies.

                            The way light                             keeps its shadow

by swallowing it.

Ocean Vuong, from “Into the Breach,” Night Sky with Exit Wounds (Copper Canyon Press, 2016)