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POETRY: mistletoe

Updated: Dec 31, 2020

Artwork by Rebecca Song, staff artist

how are you doing? she asks,

how have you been? — as if

black roses are not sprouting

through the fractures of my

cranium. i write in forgotten

script, slip-sliding tension, a

relic of my mother tongues

before they twisted together

and choked. i pull apart hair

strands like vines, forage for

a face unhidden, an emotion

unbidden. my spine aches to

turn toward the sun, lilies in

my lungs, labyrinths of sinew

and pollen. i stain the pages

of my tempest with crushed

dandelions and think not of

peonies or azaleas or, worse,

the carnations she wreathed

atop the crown of her head.

hyacinths litter my pillow in

the eve of the anniversary, a

bouquet of letters unsent, an

ageless memory of petals on

rosewater on sunset orange

sheets. i cough, choke, crush

butterflies in my fists. i splay

my fingers like stamen, spray

colorless blood like ink from

two broken fountain pens. i

weep in another language. i

sit pretty on your countertop

and adorn the doorway from

the kitchenette to the dining

room and watch you kissing

other women while daffodils

blossom from between their

lips. though you do not bud

or bloom, i imagine you as an

oak tree so i could coil or curl

around you and hold you as

you suffocate. i spit hollies. i

am mistletoe — thus i say i’m



This is Alina!

This is Rebecca! She’s 18 years old, fresh out of high school and anticipating to start art school in the fall. She not only loves to make creative content through her drawings but she also loves to listen to music (from R&B to kpop), dance, read novels, binging shows and movies, learning new languages on Duolingo and hanging out with friends.

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