@FLUXPSW
FALL 2020
LIT
MAG
FLUX POETRY & SPOKEN WORD
FLUX. A SAFE PLACE. A BRAVE SPACE. NEVER A HATE SPACE.
CONT ENTS FEATURED POETS IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE
Noelle Kuhoric Rachel Sink Jo Clark Ria Patrick Maresco Jayla Rose momentous Olivia Keenan Alex Li Destiny Brown Charlotte Giff
POEMS "Eleven" "Callous" "Terminal" "Colors" "A Process" "Burning Breath" "Tender is the night" "Sonata for my Sisters" "Faerie Rings" "Arsenic" "Little Church on a Hill" "Fluorescent Wife" "Love's Roses" "Newfoundland" "Unravel" "Sprout" "hugs" "Darling" "Bees" "the deities of your dead desire"
We here at Flux are all about creating a space where our community can feel safe and welcome to share their art. That transcends media too. It’s not just in our open mics and slams that we want the work we put forward to be inclusionary—it stands for the work we publish too. Each and every piece of art and writing published in this literary zine has been chosen because it represents that safe space and respects the cultural interflow that Flux stands for. With love, Flux Publications
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Eleven Noelle Kuhoric I smell the cleaning chemicals and sanitizer in the hall. I smell the cookies your family brought to the hospital. But this can’t be what death smells like; You’re only eleven. I taste my breakfast as I get nauseous by even walking into your room. But this can’t be what death tastes like; You’re only eleven. I watch your chest rise forcefully; up and down. I see the numerous machines you’re attached to. But this can’t be what death looks like; You’re only eleven. I feel your soft hair under my lips as I kiss the top of your head. I feel the breeze walking next to your bed as you get transferred from a hectic PICU, to a more peaceful Oncology floor. I feel the hard plastic under my thumb as I press the PCA pump for you, But this can’t be what death feels like, You’re only eleven. I hear your raspy strains of breath. I hear the PCA pump beep signaling it’s time to give you more morphine. I hear your mother cry and I cry with her. But this can’t be what death sounds like; You’re only eleven. I sit next to your bed and remember when you were singing and dancing for me; How you were just planning your Make-a-Wish trip to Disney. This can’t be happening now; You’re only eleven. I wasn’t ready to let you go. You were only eleven. This poem is written in memorial of Sean Javon Terrell Harris. He passed away on March 6th, 2020 after a long battle with neuroblastoma. He was only eleven.
Callous Rachel Sink I once had someone asks me if it hurts And of course whenever that’s the question Every time the answer is yes The answer is every time, yes It hurts every time to watch the angel I held In my heart as a child melt through my bloody fingers but why Did she ever feel the need to leave right now? Whenever that’s the question of course I answer “heaven was calling her away” And the lie tastes good even though the molten wings Still feel like sandpaper pooled in my bloody palms Dried and marbled and grafted onto the skin The truth is, she was never there in the first place The waxen skin of my palms is just the chemical reaction That happens whenever a child believes men Are capable of living up to expectation
Terminal Jo Clark In this life or the next, I’ll drive buses. & I’ll wait for those who are running late & I’ll never arrive anywhere on time. I’ll keep the seats clean from grime, I’ll leave graffiti that’s kind, or means well & everyone will love me. When I’m a bus driver, I’ll honk at the road when kids pump their fists, & I’ll wave to other bus drivers like boaters do, too & everyone on my bus will love me, so they’ll wave too. When the days are cold & I hold every story in the rearview mirror. I’ll turn up the heat. Then the kids will warm their fingertips by the vents & everyone will be safe on my bus in the wintertime. Someone might thank me as they step inside. & when a girl stumbles by the curb at night, I will pull over, let her into the warm metal beast. She will curl up, bloodshot & frozen on the worn fabric of the seat. She might cry. I might know her. I will drive her home. I will take the people on my bus to where they need to go.
Colors Ria red, the color of passion only reminds me of your lips soft, kissable, warm the taste of sushi and smoke orange, the color of warmth gives me the feeling of your arms your head nestled in the crook of my neck of seeing sunsets on long car rides yellow, the color of joy i only see your smile and the twinkle in your eyes the smell of sweat and you green, the color of healing the two am calls come to mind jokes and tears all combine the sound of your laughter blue, the color of trust brings back the way in which i whispered secrets and the way you wiped my tears the feel of your fingertips on me violet, the color of royalty reminds me of the way that you left me you were aloof and cold the absence of your humanity, no warmth you were my rainbow and now you are not the colors reminded me of you but sure as dye, they will fade and die
A Process
Patrick Maresco I am messy Jungle gyms of clothes and plates all over the room It can take days or weeks to even notice the problem I am messy Broken psyche strewn together by pep talks and loose strings It can take days or weeks to even notice I’m bleeding I am… me I am meeting myself in the dark room behind my eyes It can take hours or days to remember what I find But I, am, me Like autumn leaves falling on rusty metal scraps The beautiful new colors pushed up against the old rust I am me The tired eyelids who hold themselves up all day just to survive The heart that pumps itself into a fret to keep me alive I am… this This is the process that creates and destroys Matters and molecules and neurons and toys I am… a process Thoughts move around me like marathon sprinters Running me sick taking hold of my person I am… not, just, this These patterns are driving me sick to my stomach Cascades of anger risk loosening my connection to the world And to those around me who feel its burning I am… not, this. Flowers twisted around thorns on my neurons Twisting and pricking my brain when my mind consumes me This is… a part of me Several layers of the onion unfolding at once Down to molecules and back up to a citizen To an earthling, to an inhabitant of the universe Back down to empty space, for the world I am… a process Your energy holds me tight with its own arms Sensing my urges to hold you right back You are… part of me You are the quandary that I see in my eyes The empty space in the contents of my experience I am… part of you Patterns of atoms expressing themselves Into holding each other and moving close Inches away from your legs on the couch
There’s a maple, warm core of this sweet, cold night We are… an experience We are a living matter library Joint experiences deviating at points and returning Intertwining paths and love letters and smiling emojis Rapid-fire conversation with a lingering smile or a perfectly timed wink We are… each other Astronauts in the space of the earth’s biome Or we, too, are planets in this watery sphere we call home Falling into each other's orbit Exploring emotions and foreign touch-sensations And you, remind me, of what I am, and what I am not. I am messy. I am a process. Emotions and senses and thoughts run by me But they do not reside within me They are like comets within my atmosphere I am not, this. You are a planet like me An orbit surrounding an orbit surrounding an unknown center Two lush and diverse jungles and oceans of messy rooms and shared beds And you remind me that I am a process And I am not always what it seems I am Because you are just like me And I can’t wait until the next time you join me in my orbit I am… a process. But I can process that process when I’m with you.
Burning Breath Jayla Rose
When the bile begins to bake Under the heat of my tongue I make sure to breathe in Through my big nose Let my body fill up with enough air To float amongst my ancestors Allow myself to dream of their freedom My body now hovering over my shadow She reminds me, That I must stay above all this Nonsense masquerading as news Headlines offering nothing but headaches Another brotha buried, Another sista slain Yet they use our names as heralds of change Tell us to be grateful for our marginal gains Synthesize our stories into street names Black lives can get a plaza but never any peace Try to pacify us with a presidency but never any policy All the while, our neighborhoods remain the same Engulfed in rage, terror, and shame Black children learning white history In prisons parading as classrooms, they Swallow their innocence every morning As they walk past confederate statues As they walk down chalk lined city streets, Used to call that sketch their cousin They know that taste of grief long before they graduate That is the same pain that coats my throat Leaves my neck purple and blue Even when there is no noose, My feet hovering over unmarked graves From above, all I smell is salty tears and Burning homes, legacies going up in smoke I breathe in until my lungs ache Savor the swelling as though it is my last
Chance to claim my livelihood I finally open my mouth, Let the bile billow out Fury filling a glossed over cavity Carved out by centuries of white supremacy Our sorrows no longer suppressed Our tongues, our only means of defense No more headlines to misinterpret all this harm Inflicted upon babies who never knew peace Instead taught that their struggle will never cease Injustice springing from cracks in bloodied concrete A muddied narrative broadcasted on repeat This dehumanization of Black bodies Has always left a sour taste in my mouth This dehumanization of My body Has always left a sour taste in my mouth.
Tender is the night momentous After I finished drying off the last of our coffee cups, I sauntered out the kitchen door towards the sunflower field. You wore your stained maroon overalls and ratty birkenstocks as you lazily dragged two chairs outside. I carefully placed the picnic basket on the freshly mowed grass, hiding two cold Snapples, fresh-picked strawberries from our garden, day old chocolate croissants, and two egg sandwiches. You helped me set down our blanket, the one you knitted last winter and used to nestle in by the fireplace during those nippy winter nights. From a distance, we hear out two cats, Chicken and Waffles, play-fighting amongst the blooming sunflowers. I passed you a peach Snapple, while I went to check on them. I returned with a handful of sunflowers, placing one behind your ear as you take a bite from the chocolate croissant. I grabbed my book and sat next to you, making sure to snatch a strawberry. It was a cool summer evening, the sun just setting behind the hills and swaying sycamore trees. In that moment, everything was okay. We were safe and sound, embraced by the surrounding flora and fauna. Welcomed by the echoing ribbit of the frogs and the song of the hummingbirds. You planted your head on my shoulder, nestling into the crook of my neck as I gingerly turned the page of my book: Tender is the night.
Sonata for my Sisters Olivia Keenan i. my momma hair so big the doorway has to get out of her way my sister hair so frizzy the umbrella uses her to stay dry my cousin hair so wild the shower drain says HELL NAH my dad head so bald yet he always grumbling about some DRANO goddamn it rains hair in this home!! you ever seen hair stop weather?
you ever been around a Black girl?
we catch the clouds in our manes.
call it curly, call it nappy, call it magic
call it sunshine— our hair catches that too rays turn to gold on every curl can the other girls do that??? no, ma’am those people use real umbrellas we harnessed the rain centuries ago (!)
ii. my lips so big I kiss the sky without meaning to my lips so wide I pull waves when I wake my lips so soft like the dawn, sun rays risen my mouth paradise-- beach balm glistenin you should sit in here and start listenin pressed against your ears, I whisper with the oceans “
goddamn
”
you ever kissed lips like this? I hold the seas in my grips call it gusty,
call it choppy, call it smooth, call it magic
my lips blow that too ;)
sea foam salt and riptide sugar caught in my tongue can the other girls do that??? no, ma’am I breathe like seashells and host hurricanes in my hips my Black body got big lips everywhere
iii. my momma soul so big she don’t have time to make supper my sister soul so strong she got Atlas grumbling about THIS BITCH my soul so shiny I’ve been teaching the sun how to pray my dad soul so full cuz he got four Black girls to hold goddamn you get it now? we came out dancing we came out music we came out rhythm soul music in our flat and natural movements call it slap happy call it wishbones call it overcome (overcame!) call it magic you ever believed in God for real?
you ever loved a Black girl?
we the sunshine and the sea we the kingdom and all the queens can the other girls do that? no ma’am If I am the sonata, this my recapitulation I harnessed the reins centuries ago my Black body coded codas, da capo
Faerie Rings Ria a bright summer eve, with the sun sat softly on the horizon like a pearl. and white pearly mushrooms are sat in a circle in my backyard. Aunty calls it a faerie circle, and tells me “Don’t step in! They will ask for what you don’t have.” So as a good little obedient child, I gently tiptoe around the faeries and give them gifts of love, like the small fruits I didn’t want to eat or the one spicy indian thing my dad gave me. But now i look at it and realize the little squirrels probably ate the grapes and samosas. I wonder what they would ask me if i stepped within the confines of the ring. Would they ask me for my heart? For i have given bits and pieces to everyone I meet, and everything I love. Or would they ask me for my confidence? For that comes in ebbs and waves, and no one holds their hands on the reigns of tides. Maybe they would ask for my time, which i would give willingly, although it is simply sand slipping out of my reach. oh to be the young child once more, and to have left little gifts for the faeries. Maybe they will have mercy on me for I have given them what I cannot give myself.
Arsenic Ria work your hardest run your fastest all-star, best of the best outshine all the rest and yet all they say is “it's not enough you think what you are doing is tough you don’t even have it rough your whole life has been a slough” and somewhere all the pain the drain the stress the mess all makes you snap ———————————————————— so afterwards the chaos the tears the hurt all of it goes away and you have gone as well you are an empty husk of happiness you are incapable of expression, you are hollow and emotionless an echo of your past self and yet one look at the past and you attempt to project it onto the future reflected like a black mirror with no in-between.
Little Church on a Hill Rachel Sink Can’t you see even from A distance the way the frame Curls around it’s rotting walls The way Tree branches sway And shake in the wind A frightful goodbye to each soul That passes away into those big bronze doors Dripping with rust Little church on the hill, An unsteady breath away from Crumbling and yet You stand by sheer force of will as if Held up by a spiteful soul Won’t you share your stories With an old soul like me You see, my dreams are luminous Or at least they were Until a shaky breath held Me by the throat and with cement encrusted bones I was left to the mercy of witches and monsters and the moon laughs still echoing away in your ears blood still dripping from the walls even so long later we still Can’t get your eyes out of our head isn’t it odd how curiosity brought me to your doors and your doors brought me to my knees begging please whatever creature is holding you up
let him let me go and I promise to never return that is unless you call me back
Fluorescent Wife Alex Li Oh fluorescent wife, woman of white, wrap your tendrils around me Make white drywall despair my home, tenderly choke my mind in a totality of homogeneity. Be the beginning, be the end, the alpha and the omega, Our dreams are luminous, but you cannot dream Our skin remembers an epic of affection carved into tactile memories, but you cannot remember Our bodies drift, untethered and alone, but you cannot drift You sink yourself into my apartment walls, Soaking yourself into my plaster cage like an oppressive moon. I am falling without gravity, Hurtling softly and silent into your luminescent arms. In this 10th circle of hell, this purgatory of nothing, I desire nothing more than desire, to hunger, to long, to thirst so madly and desirously, to bite into life and feel it drip down my chin. Where Tantalus wants without wanting, Where incandescent wives touch without touching, A man screams but he cannot hear.
Love’s Roses Destiny Brown
Roses can be white. Violets are more purple. I didn't know what to expect, when I entered in your circle. The attraction was like lightning, electrifying and fast. Soon we grew something special: A relationship made to last Then the fog started to clear And the sun shone light on us The bruises scars and pain we felt From past loves had caused a fuss We both expressed love uniquely And the learning curve was steep Our story now has plot twists But it's still one worth it's keep To love is something different Like creating pollen for the bees To take love is like drinking The rain to nourish your leaves Both require something And always includes the heart Love keeps two connected Even when we’re apart With loves beauty comes its stems Covered in sharp and painful thorns So that the foundation is protected And anyone with eyes it warns The thorns can grow with time Like inside jokes, secrets and trust Some can hurt the plant itself Like accusations made unjust
Nowhere in the world is there a rose grown just the same But in the end they're beautiful Or will cause us too much pain
Newfoundland (Ocean Pt. II) Ria Mother, I know it must hurt you that I am so far away from the safety of our shores but I have a new shore now, with similar coconut trees, and silky soft sands that stick to the base of my feet, and similar little clams, that remind me that this — This is home now. I could have lived my entire life on our beach, I could have died sailing the raging seas (i suppose death by my own hands would come either way) but my island is my home now. And the people — They are family now. And you would love them, for they are kind and sweet and they treat me as a human being not a little diamond, put in a safe to be protected not because you don't trust me, but you don't trust others. But these others let me live the way I want to. I fish, I harvest, I provide. And every night, with cuddles and warmth we decide what to do the next day. This is my routine now. Mother, I know you were scared for me. But I am grown now. I am Odysseus and I have completed my trials and found my Ithaca. Let me rest on my olive branch bed with my loving bride. This is my life now. I will never forget you. But I am in Newfoundland. You must let me go.
Unravel Ria Night has fallen, the world is still Crickets are calling, the wind is warm, and up upon the window sill lies my winter sweater, old and worn. it’s not my most cozy, fashionable, or even my favorite yet i still wear it, for it holds me and warms me till i have no need for it. Do I still need it? If I am being honest, it isn’t my style or my color, or my size, or me really. I have grown past that sweater yet everyday I shrug my shoulders and wear it. Everyone loves my sweater, and always comments on how wonderful it is, or where i got it. I dont lie when i say i have no memory Why do I still have it? I suppose i’ve simply gotten used to it and the way it masks me It’s a pleasant pullover which no one dislikes or despises. It protects me from people being angry at me. It’s a warm smile when all I want to do is curl up and cry. The people closest to me hate it and want me to burn that sweater once and for all. They have seen me in much more flattering clothes and have adored me in them. I do not need it anymore. I can be myself.
Sprout
momentous I am one of a hundred of maple tree seeds, spinning down from its branches. My siblings and I flew far apart, some might become snacks for birds or twenty might fall in a pond. I flew to an unknown meadow, becoming isolated from the others. If I am lucky enough, I might fall on dirt that is just right, just enough for me to start my journey in becoming a towering tree. Now, I am nestled in the perfect blend of mud and dirt, separated from my siblings, ready to grow. But it has not rained since last week and I can hear the squirrels hunting just above my head. This drought has bred feelings of unfulfillment and uncertainty. Thankfully, my outer shell made of grit and fortitude protects me from the cold. Days pass, and I manage to absorb nutrients from the soil. Suddenly, I grew roots, enabling me to absorb water beyond my solitude. I began to sprout, my head just above the soil, feeling the sun on my leaves. Time passed and in those seemingly unimportant moments, I was silently blooming. Months have passed and I am now growing branches, knowing they will grow into strong arms, providing a home for local fauna. While skinny, these branches are resilient. During those small and painstaking moments, I was budding. Now, I am 5 feet tall with green maple leaves, breathing above ground, exposed to the elements. I have made friends with the local squirrels, birds, and inchworms. While sometimes my leaves are too young to withstand the wind and heavy spring rainfall, I am grounded by my roots. As I look around the meadow, I see that I am not alone. I am surrounded by a variety of beautiful flowers. I see the edge of a forest in the distance, trees soaring through the sky and covering the land in front of me. I am no longer the 5-inch sprout from 3 weeks ago. Perhaps one day, I will be able to transform from a short seedling, into a massive maple tree. As they say, April showers bring May flowers and I am excited for what is to come. As the philosopher Matshona Dhliwayo said: “A seed neither fears light nor darkness, but uses both to grow.�
hugs Charlotte Giff My chest carries the weight of a lost memory bittersweet. this memory tastes warm, like laughter and scrunched up eyes it tastes like the euphoria of running toward someone with your arms outstretched... the warmth is gone now, faint impressions of it lingering on my skin, the pressure almost palpable. your scent, too pressed flower petals, soft damask rose silky ambrosia between your fingertips dripping down my spine tantalizingly tingly spreading like golden sunshine on smooth plains envelop me in you, please stretch yourself around me shelter me from that sweet acrid dark encroaching slowly, keep her at bay be my bolster, be my barrier carry me weightless, floating with you above concrete jungles and alleyways shifting and you, stoic amidst the uncertainty‌ thank you thank you for caring enough to hold me and for a moment your body lifted mine and this heavy heart lifted even higher, so high it was in my throat, crawling out of my mouth... I’m speaking now I love you, too.
Darling Rachel Sink Can’t you tell by the way I twitch my darling There are no cameras here Just you me and the bones Dangling from tree limbs Above our noses Delicate the way they brush your neck it almost Feels like a kiss, and yet It was over before it began Cause can’t you tell by the way the ground hitches my love, they’ve already started digging just feel the dirt shift and I can feel your heart skip Surely you didn’t think You’d actually escape this, it was here in the forest of bones where you buried the bloody seeds you’ve come to sow You felt me twitch I feel Your heart skip when the first Of them finally reach the surface- it’s time for penance, I promise You won’t hurt for long I promise it’ll be over soon
Bees Ria bzzzzz…… i hear swirling around me like a soft summer storm. yellow, fuzzy, warm they spiral around me in dances of joy, and i wish to join them, but they will not invite me. a celebration! maybe the bzzzzz…… is the buzzing of an impatient crowd waiting for an unknown event. or maybe its a party in full swing, dancing and flying into silvery beams i wish to know what is happening but no one explains it to me. maybe the bzzzzz……is them talking, inquiring me of my whereabouts and background — why are you not yellow? do you not speak our lovely language? how are we meant to accommodate you? and why? you are different. You scare us. the bees seem lovely creatures and i am content to watch them dance and bzzzzz…… they are kind to their own kind, but hide a tiny knife dripping in poison just for me. so that i may not come too close so that they can act preemptively. so they keep an eye out for me, for I am not the same. I am not insect-like enough for their liking. I am a mix of something foreign, something unknown, something they never want to know either. I hum a bzzzzz……for myself and for no one else. For I will never be a bee. and neither do i want to be.
the deities of your dead desire Alex Li
skin sinks into static shocks, etching indiscriminate, invisibly in the space between felt and feel crushed between four walls of absolute . i preferred it before, when the space between your foot and the ground lasted so long into the night that sunset’s sister sunrise saw me return to Earth fire, escape! caged by distance, imprisoned by inevitability and the catastrophe of congruency; burn, hotly and madly, your body out of an oppressive void. be that stride of your slender leg in the hour-long split-second of frozen beauty and now the sun! is spilling! everywhere – fractalized in majesty, sunlight dripping over sea blue skies like ocean foam seasoning you back into life. i wish a suitcase full of sparks crawls its way up your galvanic ventricle, your tesla coil kidneys your turing-complete synapses.
can I drown you? in seventy-three-thousand volts of love? can i draw your heart with the deities of your dead desire, please: this is a gospel for a new century. there is no church, there is no steeple, open the doors and there is no people. in howled madness we ask for the same warmth we grow, we sow into soft, fertile dirt begging bloody and worn into the night.