elementia issue 18
For my motherBy Arden Yum
After Toni Morrison’s Beloved
Mother, tell me about the child in your womb.
We shared water &
mother's guiltBy Stephanie K
I ate the placenta and the umbilical cord
(and i ate and i ate).
I tasted the iron on my teeth
(it stained until i swallowed and i swallowed the hydrogen peroxide).
Artificial DreamsBy Isabelle Shachtman
Been sitting still the whole day
Thank you trazowhatervthehellyouare
For the frog and the eyes
And the image of my
Ex-girlfriend in the sun and
What am I saying?
What’ve I done?
A Bicycle AccidentBy Cheyenne Mann
Graze the lips with concrete and floss with blood
Wintergreen and sharp, pennies in the mouth that
Rattle like bicycle wheels down long hills.
Bandaid sticky, adhesive concealer that fortifies a face
To face the world dripping with bruises, salt, and the momentum
It was just redBy Gaby Kill
"Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never one beautiful, it was just red." - Kait Rokowski
I wanna make poetry out of the way the boy who was my first grade best friend
private poemBy Yasi Farahmandnia
there are years to work out the kinks.
my hands buzzing and my tongue stuck to the back of rusty teeth, i scream to write in an unmarked
but spit wets the page instead.
i want to communicate by destroying our common language.
neighbor’s shopkeeper bellBy Yasi Farahmandnia
one of the more lovelier sounds.
i find these days,
i can replicate you if i close my ears enough:
the clash of my spoon with the ice cream bowl,
the kiss my lighter leaves on the body of a candle,
SweetheartBy Gaby Kill
My lover is strong for a reason.
I was teasing her neck and giggled when she flipped me
hit flat on my back, seeing stars in broad daylight on the lawn
of the private school she would get kicked out of.
The SculptorBy Mariam Khelashvili
The sculptor unveiled a block
A block of marble bought with the
Cents, dollars, kept under lock
Kept under a lock and key.
The sculptor went home again
while rain and lightning poured from skies
Stepped upon the midnight train,
Of Questions and AnswersBy Ayesha Asad
I have wondered why my body
looks the way it does in the sun.
Brow bone glittering, sweat
tricking like the last swill of water
down a glass, blood circulating
like clockwork, a gear so visceral
and rooted in its own
Alone in a Cabin I Think of What Led Me HereBy Ayesha Asad
Was it the way the leaves fell,
streamlined, as I burst
bawling onto greenery,
or the first time sunlight peeked
through dark branches overhead—
or the reddish-purple skin
stretched over my sleeping body,
surrounded by fluid? What phantom
Let the Rain Keep FallingBy Ayesha Asad
Let the Rain Keep Falling
O birthplace rain I take what I can from
your mouth, delivering myself
from spring seeds,
wetting my tongue
with your resilience.
And you warm my skin in segments,
1980s Coke PartyBy Billie Croft
The deciding factor in
whether or not I’d breach the boundary between binaries
was a gender neutral bathroom sign.
I heard someone belt a show tune in the shower while
another howled. Someone else took off their jeans, stuffed
BodhisattvaBy Billie Croft
I will liken the heavy clouds that pass over my land to grey matter
before my body remembers the practicality of pain
& blood rushes into my bladder.
I’ll swallow a scream, or
Cigarette ConstellationsBy Avalon Lee
The ink darkens, leeching my energy as I trace an index over the text. A rejection letter from California Institute of the Arts, and best regards. No better than every other art academy who also shelved my portfolio.
The letter lands neatly in the bin. I stalk to my studio.
claymation in six scenesBy Christine Baek
claymation in six scenes.
Margaret finds out she is made of clay when she presses into the crook of her elbow and pulls the flesh right off.
a story in the perspective of the love interestBy Julie Pham
A STORY IN THE PERSPECTIVE OF THE LOVE INTEREST
the director says start, and you come to life like an automaton. a blink, and
A Piece Of Me Died On the 1 TrainBy Rachel Shela
Ok, so it’s mid April during Spring break and you’re on the wretched 1 train. You get on at 28th street after a sleepover with your best friend who, in 11 months, will no longer be your friend. You find a seat next to a robust woman who we’re going to call Katelyn.
St. JudeBy Grace Ashley
The parking lot felt stagnant as Jude walked across empty yellow lines. The air was weighted with the cold, heavy enough that it almost seemed like the cloud of her breath dispersed down rather than up. The lights flickered above her head with a steady, fly-like buzz.