chaney

On the shores of St. Croix, jewels were found not in locked, glossy standees but in between bare sand— shards of antique china, broken by gavels of time, sneaked in nooks, crannies of the island’s beach line, some say they are from the cruising Europeans with broken wares falling, some believe they were looted, destroyed… Continue reading chaney

pocket: a 100-word story

after Kimberly Blaeser's When We Sing of Might at 3pm, the sun wears my 20's feet. unsure how bright to glow yet certain that the west exist to swallow it like a sea's wide mouth. i am almost 30. as i blow more candles, i find myself ageing like my mother and the mothers before her.… Continue reading pocket: a 100-word story

our Christmas lights

Made of wood - old unnamedwood - our tiny home. Fragilein the surface. Look beneath.After a minimum of 20 typhoons per year, it's still proud after acouple of decades. Unlikethe tamarind tree, the acacia,the guava, the hibiscus, thebanana. September is clothe in blinking little lights. The countdown forthe manger starts. It is a season of… Continue reading our Christmas lights

talisman

flowers,petals. your charm.soft, silky worn by lilies, wild daffodils, on your head they sit and take tea, Persephone. do they wilt as yourscented toes step towards your beloved's grave? because the leaves do.because the leaves do. — 08.04.2021©2021 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.Photo via Unsplash This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International… Continue reading talisman

the lost city

He who hesitates is lost. Unless you are a handkerchief,a ponytail, a forgotten umbrella,a violet hairpin, some princesspaper dolls, my first pair of gold earrings.Those that were once mine.I could build a castle, a mega city, a hydroponic building of lost things thanks to my hesitant hands. — 29.07.2021©2021 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.Photo… Continue reading the lost city

sparrowed mornings

my palms can hold your hand at night, i wonder how they reached so many miles, combed some bay andthe west sea, with a floater. i am sure. probably. you have ten fingers butfelt like twenty in a piano. you ticklemy toes and make my heart flutterlike a feather from a cheerful sparrow. mornings. i… Continue reading sparrowed mornings

now

means green leavesor wilted ones for roots waiting to be buried in a new soil (after breakingitself in half to tasteone fine sunray). meansthe distance betweentomorrow's to-do list and last night cricket'spillow-in-tears. means some more carbon dioxideexhaled after a brief tripinside your lungs, one breath, and anotheruntil your flesh fingersmelt with the old roots of… Continue reading now

Two years taste like

my first dhal on our seven-hour train ride— spices still strangers to my soya-sauced-lips. a firework to my palette yet, you were there. with a camera taking notes of each knot on my fore- head, every twitch of my nose. i knew. i need not to glaze myself in honey to be enough for you.… Continue reading Two years taste like

one of eight mouths

rain, they say, is the heaven pouring blessings. when i was a child, it means flood, tickling my chubby ankles, choking my father’s chest once. it means waiting for free food rations and escaped shrimps from spilling ponds. it is a memorised, annual struggle. a sweet, repeating chapter of our wooden, dining table (too small… Continue reading one of eight mouths

wait on wheat

ebb and flow goes the salty, blue sea, how many seashells has it robbed from thee? may they be conch filled with your childhood dreams, or the prayers of your aged-mind’s streams, may they be shell-hearts you’ve always long to hold, too sharp to touch, too tough to mold, or perhaps a silent wish your… Continue reading wait on wheat