Jeffrey Xu (15)
Kitchen Hymnal
Spiny & porous, my mother’s teeth were poised for bigger
Dreams to inhabit, thicker fists to crush. Opened her mouth
Like a church, said come to the red stars, choked herself on the
Words of her ancestors she had kept in a little red book
Of bones — the soil, orphaned by the bullets of latent
Spring, carries our heritage like an unrooted tombstone. I am trying
To tell her speak to the birds, mouth brimming with
Foreign lyric, but she won’t listen, folds her lips in a
Cheap flightlessness that I know any boy can buy, no man
Can tame. I am trying to teach her that all the earth
Does is wait for bodies, sowing wounds in discarded
Seeds, slicing galaxies of stories in the midnight
Breeze. It’s funny, how each blank moon feeds the nameless
Skies before rain stains our glass for a new beginning. When she
Is hungry, she drops bits of herself in all the wrong angles
& unharvests wisdom, flaying the skins of her withered fruit
She had saved for godless times. Tonight, she splits a pomegranate
Into quarters, analyzes the piecemeal crimson as a spell-bound
Creature, canines plucked by orphaned nouns, charred on
Barren altars. Tonight, I am tired of it. I can smell the hail
Receding in foreign wastelands, the sharp edge of its butcher
Knife. I can taste the sour prayers of a fading
Season, the damp curve of its anatomy curdled
Against my tongue. Unwashed forgiveness douses
Salt in our empty eyes, splashes soy sauce in acts of mercy, the way
Memories blend into fate at the outskirts of a city, hidden
In unfilled cupboards. Here is our broken counter waiting
To be rebuilt, blaspheming the corrosion. Here are our walls against the
Crumbled skyline, against the ruins of this exiled language. Burning
Without noise, the pots making banners of ghosts we can’t keep.
Jeffrey is a high-school junior in New Jersey. He loves exploring the intersection of STEM and the humanities, and his work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, Polyphony Lit, Blue Marble Review, Rise Up Review, and more.
Kitchen Hymnal
Spiny & porous, my mother’s teeth were poised for bigger
Dreams to inhabit, thicker fists to crush. Opened her mouth
Like a church, said come to the red stars, choked herself on the
Words of her ancestors she had kept in a little red book
Of bones — the soil, orphaned by the bullets of latent
Spring, carries our heritage like an unrooted tombstone. I am trying
To tell her speak to the birds, mouth brimming with
Foreign lyric, but she won’t listen, folds her lips in a
Cheap flightlessness that I know any boy can buy, no man
Can tame. I am trying to teach her that all the earth
Does is wait for bodies, sowing wounds in discarded
Seeds, slicing galaxies of stories in the midnight
Breeze. It’s funny, how each blank moon feeds the nameless
Skies before rain stains our glass for a new beginning. When she
Is hungry, she drops bits of herself in all the wrong angles
& unharvests wisdom, flaying the skins of her withered fruit
She had saved for godless times. Tonight, she splits a pomegranate
Into quarters, analyzes the piecemeal crimson as a spell-bound
Creature, canines plucked by orphaned nouns, charred on
Barren altars. Tonight, I am tired of it. I can smell the hail
Receding in foreign wastelands, the sharp edge of its butcher
Knife. I can taste the sour prayers of a fading
Season, the damp curve of its anatomy curdled
Against my tongue. Unwashed forgiveness douses
Salt in our empty eyes, splashes soy sauce in acts of mercy, the way
Memories blend into fate at the outskirts of a city, hidden
In unfilled cupboards. Here is our broken counter waiting
To be rebuilt, blaspheming the corrosion. Here are our walls against the
Crumbled skyline, against the ruins of this exiled language. Burning
Without noise, the pots making banners of ghosts we can’t keep.
Jeffrey is a high-school junior in New Jersey. He loves exploring the intersection of STEM and the humanities, and his work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, Polyphony Lit, Blue Marble Review, Rise Up Review, and more.