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Morning Sunlight (وَٱلضُّحَىٰ)

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I can’t pretend I’m not afraid of my mother, 

who gave me a name that means morning 

sunlight. I have no idea how she predicted

I would grow up to be someone who 

wakes up at every sunrise to watch dust 

swirling in the orange light. She tells me, 

“Pray,” whenever I complain about the insomnia, 

but I never listen. How am I supposed to talk 

to someone who only exists in fog? 

Her eyes have this permanent glare 

that can rip stitched skin apart, and 

I don’t know who she got it from – her father 

with his loathing for laughter that is too loud,

or her mother, who tried to find God

before He was ready, or maybe it was 

the strangers with rifles who stood outside 

her school gates and left footprints in sacred ground.

How will you face Him when The Day comes? 

Her anger seeps like blood from a scab 

that I can’t stop picking at. I stare at my reflection

in windows and what stares back,

I crave the most: my body entwined 

with another’s, smoke by the train tracks,

the syrupy taste of lips against mine.

It’s strange I’m not scared of The Day 

because I’ve made so many mistakes, 

and I see Him all the time in the orange light

as clear as the dust. I hope my mother’s prayers 

will protect me, and I hope He knows how sorry 

I am for looking at my reflection too often and

how sorry I am for ignoring the orange light 

and my mother, who named me after it.

Zuha Jaffar

Solar Flares from my Mother’s Stare

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there has always been a sun.

AA

breathing mouth open window 

blinds bearing teeth marks, slathering sunscreen

over moles and mottled knees.

AA

she has blessed 

as easily as burned, planted belladonna,

giggling, in the soil

of her kitchen table garden, used 

i-know-you 

teasings as fertilizer, used

too-late hugs as aloe vera, soothed 

the unearthed silence. i have learned 

to seek the shade, ladybugs burrowing into

my chest, escaping her 

you-are-mine-my-blood-my-firstborn 

shining stare that blossoms into 

blindspots in my vision. 

AA

i have kept scuffed sunglasses 

nesting on my scalp, anytime armor for the grin 

that turns to glare. i have relished rain, tended to

myself beneath baggy clothes, tried to 

grow violets in the dark.

AA

why be warm if the comfort catches flame? 

why be understood by slow collapse? 

why photosynthesize 

if every gasp 

of carbon dioxide asks

let-me-see-that-i-should-read-it-before-you-submit-are-you-sure-you-are-who-you-are?

AA

Brigid May

The April Diet

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If I were inside me I would tell

thyroxine to hurry up and metabolize

blueberries so I can eat more 

blueberries and slink

into more neoprene.

Not summer yet, no

and plenty of time for blues to get

sweeter and bluer and more

books to read before I slink — three,

last I checked, but the second

drawer calls out anyway with

a sticky bleat, sticky fingers reach

for more berries, books, bottoms

(for slinking) until I munch

the carton empty, my skin

sweeter and bluer and 

if I were inside me it would

all be indigo. 

Raegan Allen

I see the universe as only one thing

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In the rain, I tend to think about 

what my universe would be like, 

if I could remember the story.

.

The story my grandmother had told 

me about skies that mirror the seas, 

like glass — they were crystalline,

.

look past the reflection Sarah 

you can find heaven between 

each layer of the cotton clouds.

..

She crooned about flowers that created 

the scorching sun, and the angels that 

flew in the night, those were the stars.

..

I wish I could remember. But I can’t. 

I only remember the sound of thunder 

from her bronchial every time

..

she would take a breath. It was the worst 

when she would cry, cry in

pain, and I would try, try my hardest

..

to hold her tight, and push it

all away. My polyester shirt 

wasn’t good enough, it couldn’t

..

absorb her tears. It couldn’t bring

back the eyes, the ones that found 

our ancestors in the rings of trees.

..

I wish I could think about the universe, 

in terms of her story, but silk roads 

and crystal seas don’t exist.

..

I only remember her silk caps and crystal 

glasses that made it hard for her to read. 

She couldn’t see the angels because

..

her pain always made her fall asleep.

Sarah bring me sunflowers on your way home

I couldn’t it was winter my sweet grandmother.

..

Once in the rain, I thought about 

what my universe would be like, 

if it was my grandmothers’ story,

..

I rose my chin and saw the drops falling

from the grey-stained sky, the stars had

angel wings, and the petals of the sun hid

..

behind the trees that danced in the wind,

and the roads gleamed like silk from heaven. 

I became lost, lost in the universe she made

..

because the story she told, gave me a world

to romanticize even after she was gone.

I thought my world was hers, but in her pain

..

she was building me a universe I couldn’t forget.

Sarah Baig