Out of the Margins

on my way to the mountain ~ a poem by erika rose higbee

my mother tugs my hand. / she shouts, as if i am / fifteen years old leaving / our apartment at night.

>which oyster sauce

I used to be embarrassed by the faded and slightly sticky blue linoleum. / By that accidental smell made by the neighboring bottles of spices and sauces / that shouldn’t be combined. / By the overly general name: ASIA MART. / They’re more welcoming now.

To Sculpt a Ghost ~ a poem by Tam Nguyen

A voice-like cadence running through the family, whose members are children of many gods, telling them they are accustomed to certain kinds of death. Starvation. Salvation: too many burning desires, enough to bring down a house with it.

In a Grossly Boring Town

I recognise these glassy dull eyeballs. They used to be mine.

Dear Dairy

Lactose intolerance has been framed by Eurocentric discourse as a bodily defect. In historically ‘less-milking’ communities like those of East and South-East Asia, milk was recommended as a laxative or a purgative.

Hai, Ba

Despite Mum’s charisma on show, it rarely ever made its way home. Growing up, she was unreadable.