Sunday, January 29, 2023



You could bind the canon in skin, or parchment. 

But the truth was on pottery shards. The inconsequential. 

        We are most honest when unprepared. Struck truthful 

        in a moment of terror, without pen or paper. Write faster. 

Terror is always forthcoming. Like pressure on a specific point, 

which trickles outwards to reveal our honest faults. Splinter here. 

        My people invent kintsugi. Less a technique and more a faith. 

        Faith: that form erupts magnificent from the broken thing. Scar paint. 

We are helpless in the face of confession. In her upturned chin, 

begging, "Admit. Admit you need me. Admit you need love." I split. 

        In the way the broken vessel is helpless to pour. No matter 

        how much it tries to hold itself to a standard of function. Spill out. 

Gather up your dreams. Gather up the things you have named "dreams," 

which are just the chipped plates of your dropped stars. Don't cry. 

        Did you know tears are sieved blood? Spit, too. We are just 

        one leaky vessel trying to keep everything in. Keep trying.


Nora Hikari is an Asian American transgender poet and artist based in 

Philadelphia. She is a 2022 Lambda Literary fellow, and her work is published 

or forthcoming in Ploughshares, Washington Square Review, Palette Poetry, 

Foglifter, The Journal, and others. Her chapbook, GIRL 2.0, was a Robin Becker 

Series winner and is available at Seven Kitchens Press. She was a finalist for the 

Red Hen Press Benjamin Saltman Award, and can be found at


We loved reading the work that we’ve published (clearly), and we want an 
opportunity to better hear our contributors. We're featuring audio recordings of 
poems from our pages, read by the poet. This an open invitation to all contributors 
from any of our issues, we were delighted to print your work, now we’re eager to 
hear it.

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