tongue-dumb
a voice in the background
sounds like my younger sister
saying, hi Kuya
Kuya means older brother in
my mother’s native tongue. my
Mother tongue? I don’t know it
I called my Lola, Lalo
because as a young child I
could not pronounce the word,
it’s a silly thing, why. deep in my
gut I could not churn the sounds
into words, and words to meaning,
all that was felt by my people in the past.
sometimes I do feel guilt
wading in this shallow pond
this lack of knowledge but
othertimes I bask in ignorance
I never learned, nor tried to learn
a price paid to be more american
my sister made the same choice as I did
so I could never judge her. we both
are still young, there’s
time to change
there’s plenty of time
the knowledge of Tagalog
in my immediate family
will die with
my
mother
my
blue and red past hurts
data flowing through wires of
vein. change what my brain
cannot comprehend.
shame. from my mouth to
the darkness of my hand.
ma
your half of me
may sneak up here
and eat me alive
New Mask
All the world around, it suits the people hidden to themselves.
Outworn, a mask is just as bad, so interlink with cells
inside our cells are in—
terlinked behind severe façades. Foucault, his loom it spins
white webs draped along periphery. A hedge white flowered,
odors so persuading them to sleep, starless,
under actuality. As store divides with gain, with
decline provides excitement multiplied, an axe to smith,
a throat to slit anew.
Arise, their face, their boat, to scaffold shore across the blue,
float along to score so soft. A looming set, detritus–
roles all scrapped now faceless ocean clouds.
Dwindle tapers off across the stage that’s all the store. Stare
upon the lattice, that design Arachne wove, it bears
a dulcet tear adored,
it drops and sprouts and wilts between the broken urban floor,
glisten, glean the memory, and with its light convince them
that there must be something more.
Manet
The love that Paul describes
Belies toxicity of trust
Be pushed and pulled by tides
A soul, a world, a magnet must
To crash against the sand and die
Our love, our world, create
combust
Bereft before a sterile flower
Confused with blooming weed
Remain, remain
The artist builds their tower
Their soul an empty seed
Send it down the drain
Jake Seares
Jake Seares is an English major at the University of Richmond, where he enjoys playing ultimate frisbee and doing other recreational activities with his friends. You may find him stuck in a mire of dread at the thought of post-grad life, which will no doubt snuff the last glimmers of light in his eyes. Contact him by owl or carrier pigeon, but be ready to get a new one if he is feeling hungry that day.