THE BODY Issue - PEACH 2020/21

To all of our brilliant Peaches, This year has been a year unlike any other. We have found ourselves separated - possibly even severed - from much of what we know as we know it. In this, our relationships with our bodies have gone through a forced transformation. As individuals and a collective, we have had to reevaluate how we manoeuvre something as fundamental as touch and physical sensation. The connection between our bodies, the bodies of others, and the things we know have been broken, broken down, and broken open.

I know I don’t only speak for myself when I say that the pandemic has caused a jarring shift in my relationship with my body. It has forced us to exist with our bodies in ways we never have previously, demanding that we face our bodies in their entirety as both complete subjects and complete objects. For me, that process certainly hasn’t been easy.

PEACH has a history of obscure and abstract print-themes.

These are all themes that have suited PEACH well as it has existed in the past. However, now that we find ourselves immersed in the obscurity that the pandemic has brought, we at PEACH thought that it might be time to make space for something more concrete. Our bodies are always with us. They are here for the ride. By focusing this print-run on the body, we wanted to give people the chance to lean into physicality, just to see what comes out when we do. Maybe, if we look closely enough, we may find healing hidden somewhere within it.

Finishing this print-run has been an adventure, and very much a team effort. I would, therefore, like to thank the PEACH team for making this happen. I would also like to extend a huge thank you to everyone who contributed to ‘The Body’. Having to be so open and vulnerable about something as difficult as the body is no easy feat. Thank you for sharing your work with us and allowing us to print it. Importantly, I would also like to thank you, reader, for picking up our little magazine and giving it a look through. I am awfully proud of it. I hope you will be too.

Yours, Lara Editor in Chief at PEACH Magazine

CONTENTS When Envy Meets Solace Tehmina Usman Memories of normality no longer live in my body but in the drawers of my grandma’s house.

Daria Pushilina Balance Maya Barter Painting Ourselves Marriah Hossain Supernova Alexandra Craveiro COMBUSTION Saja Altamimi Thin Line Rachel Denham-White Steamy Love Jeweeria Arif Touch Niki Marinakis I swear, mom, I eat, I swear.

Sofia Sortino

CONTENTS Freud would envy us Lot Untitled Anastasia Gremyakina Untitled Maliha Zaman Dance with the Devil Emma Macpherson 1:1 L. D. Jakobsen Things we like Isabella Fredriksson-Allen Untitled Tofunmi Christabel Elulade (Christabel) Fashion Me to Existence RAADIYAH AMATULLAH Phases Mads Stevens BODY Izzy Colvin To the one I see in the mirror Ameerah Ali

When Envy meets Solace Tehmina Usman

Winner of the PEACH x QM Arts Society Poetry Competition My mind is like a deserted terrain that aches to be understood And yet is cast aside like a withered handkerchief Useful once but not again It invites others of any background while neglecting itself a seat at the table it creates Everyone is a Lotus against its broken branches so everyone must be superior The mind and body are one So, mine are battling for the victory of definition Am I worthy of content?

Mirrors are like an enemy that wishes to transgress my peace But I cannot look away Forgetting my body has become a ritual I must remember it to forget it What do I fear The lines of change, the marks of growth or the rolls of memories and the curves of experience That have blossomed amongst the barren soil of life’s toils I am one with the body that aids me It is not my enemy and will not abandon me like all the others I am one with the body that saves me

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Memories of normality no longer live in my body but in the drawers of my grandma’s house.

Daria Pushilina

Drawers brought memories of childhood in which my mum constantly reads Hence, piled books from early 2000s when paper-books were not yet a damage to the environment when the shame of using paper was distant Drawers brought memories of ancestors — empty jewellery boxes with exquisite but disturbing flowers carved in dark wood covered with dust.

Owners died from hunger in Leningrad’s siege during the Second World War. I thought how impossible at that time it was, to think, that one day I would become a character from my GCSE’s history course on medicine.

A student companion guide is also stuffed in an old drawer.

Self-isolation is harrowing because it has to do with waiting to re-connect but not being given a permission to do so — it is a sin of spreading; It’s just me and old damaged toys in this room. Touching them means evoking memories of how I felt before the outbreak; Or imagining it.

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Balance

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Maya Barter

Painting Ourselves Marriah Hossain

I’d like to paint my body. Splashes of colour: yellow, lime, blue, purple, pink, red, orange, indigo. An entire rainbow.

I suggest it when my lover says, “We should paint together!” They pause.

“I am not comfortable with that yet - let’s paint pictures of ourselves instead.”

We do.

It’s strange, painting your own body on paper - your shoes are cyan, with splashes of dark blue and silver for your hair. Your clothes are violet and pink, cascading down to your feet, with gold swirls on the hem and a halo of turquoise on your head. It’s freeing. It’s lovely.

We keep our skin tones. It’s an important part of us, and we cannot just throw that away. There is a reason we are called people of colour, after all.

When we are done, there is no white on the paper. We squeeze each other’s hands, which are covered in paint. My lover looks down at our hands and beams.

“Look,” my lover laughs. “We have in fact painted each other’s bodies.”

I smile wide as I follow their gaze.

“We have.”

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Supernova

Alexandra Craveiro “Hello,” she gently whispers to me from the sky, A star ominously looming as the clock strikes twelve, Ready to begin her deadly lullaby.

As her burning light targets only herself, She creeps carefully into my room, Her and I exist within the same, fateful realm.

I meet one of her sisters every June, We are bonded by despondency, We convene and prepare for the big boom.

It is our intrinsic tendency To be so acquiescent and cry As our gold fuel exhausts unpreventably.

Just as when her sisters passed by, I silently sit and watch her die, As my own mind and body levitate and say goodbye.

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COMBUSTION

Saja Altamimi

Content Warning: Body dysmorphia and mentions of an eating disorder Like Mother Earth my body has a curvature.

A spherical wholeness.

Embodying growth is a painful process; My stretch marks are battle scars.

Bury poppy seeds. Preach peace.

Men admire my plumpness as long as it’s hoisted, caged.

Men don’t like raw meat. So they rotate my flesh in their fire.

As a child, I saw bones as beauty; Knobbly wrists, defined ankles, carved collarbones.

‘Burn me to the bone’ to the mirror, I’d whisper.

The bigger I became the blacker the blindfold.

The abuse stripped me of vision – another cruel campfire game.

Dawn guided me away from those woods and in my desperation, I forgot my bra, I ran, I ran fast and I was forced to feel the melting lead on my chest, a ballooning reminder of womanhood.

I used to stand in front of the mirror with my elbow in my hip and my hand on my thigh, ‘Look at that, I’ve got curves’, I cried.

As sparks grew into flames ready to rise, The body became Judas, plotting against the power of her mind.

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Thin Line

Rachel Denham-White Content Warning: Self harm There is a little white mark on my body.

Almost invisible.

Quite dismissible.

No one even knows it’s there.

But I know.

And I try not to notice.

But sometimes, Just sometimes, All it takes is one glance.

To send me back to the cool horror of a night Where the pain spilled over in a thin red line And made me make this little white mark on my body.

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Steamy Love

Jeweeria Arif

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Touch

Niki Marinakis There was a hint of doubt traced on by her fingertips that left a mark on your skin.

I thought I could erase it with my lips, but the marks she’d left behind were scars, after all.

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I swear, mom, I eat, I swear.

Sofia Sortino

Content Warning: Mentions of eating disorders and body dysmorphia and ideations of self-harm I look at myself disgustingly I can’t ignore that voice my head cover the mirror bleah lurking body dysmorphia sudden euphoria just tear it tear my flesh strip the bones look at them clones I feel bad for myself fuck my health I just wanna be different 2 days and I feel good who says I should eat they don’t know me never will denude my soul leave the bones I scroll down look beautiful.

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Freud would envy us Lot

Content Warning: Explicit sexual content and language.

Please be aware that this piece also makes reference to rougher forms of consensual sexual contact and the physical aftermath and effects these acts can have on bodies.

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Untitled Anastasia Gremyakina My body grounds me to the earth Yet my spirit isn’t tamed.

Wild roars escape my soft-lipped mouth Yet my face appears unchanged.

My mind flies higher than these burning stars Than the cold and infinitely lonely being.

Yet I can’t rise above my earthly scars That overflow with painful bleeding.

I am an eagle, spreading heavy wings In flight, familiar and liberated.

Ongoing soothing, calming swings Would leave my traumas utterly obliterated.

I am unchained, however so I feel confined, enslaved, and cuffed To mine own corpse, insanely sore And evermore outworn and scuffed.

I long escape from this safe space.

My mind is creeping up on me within.

I feel these fears and their enormous weight A fight inside is ripping up my skin.

Oh my, if there was any universal pill Against what’s inside my head.

My soul is vastly free, but still My body grounds me to the earth instead.

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Untitled

Maliha Zaman

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Dance with the Devil Emma Macpherson

Ravishingly, I bit my lovely lips Tantalisingly slow, I swayed my hips Hypnotising him from afar

Both of us dreaming of bewitching sugar-filled kisses Lost in a mist of lust Skimmed my hands along my being Alluring him to marvel

Both of us waltzing and serenading like sweet and sour Languidly, I closed my loving eyes Exquisitely, I freed the need from my soul Daring him to tame my wilderness

Both of us wishing to flavour the party till dusk To tempt the prince of darkness - to laugh at his misery Inexplicably and simply out of reach In fine I was his saving grace

Tears rolled down his scorched skin, etching the memories of devious sin _____________________________________________ _____________________________________________ An unforgiving truth resounded, never to be forgotten.

I had the Devil begging for a sole glimpse.

Constantly yearning to enrapture me into his sweet claws 15

1:1

L. D. Jakobsen

I have only ever learned To find love in fissures A finger reaches in To scrape the sides Of taboo Just to become a hand Just to become an arm Just to become a head A torso Legs Just to become immersed I press my tongue to its walls I taste salt Hallowed body parts And something else It lingers somewhere between The end of my soft palette And my uvula Just beyond my reach

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Things we like

Isabella Fredriksson-Allen

You said you liked Slim Hips and Small Tits with the matter of fact click from your tongue Shrug of your shoulders and we were done.

With this conversation.

So, I thought.

I know I don’t like coriander or cooked tomatoes.

But as far as my tastes go I’m gravy.

Baby.

But I know that you don’t like hair when it can be bare and so sleek.

So chic.

As if my body was meant to be chic.

I like the crispy flakes left in the pan 17

from frying fish in the summer time.

Oil slicks that trace my lips when it is summer time.

High time high noon too soon to tell you that your opinions leave my mouth dry.

So let’s leave that chat for another time.

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Untitled

Tofunmi Christabel Elulade (Christabel)

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Fashion Me to Existence RAADIYAH AMATULLAH

I see you, with your society-cut standards, reaching for those colonial tools. The Glue. Material. Paint. Rubber. Seam ripper. Scissor. Straightener. You. Am I ready to be cloned?

Colour me in, no – Don’t rub me out.

I’m so much more.

Adorn me with string, no – Don’t straighten my strands I’m so much more.

Paint my scars on, no – Don’t hide them away I’m so much more.

Dress me how I like, no – Not how you’d like I’m so much more.

Embellish my marks, no – Don’t pick them off I’m so much more Now see me, with my non-default appearance, destructing those colonial tools. I don’t Conform. Fit in. Pretend. Imitate. Belong. Obey. So Are you ready to be challenged?

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Phases

Mads Stevens Content Warning: Infant death There is a baby in the ground and it is mine. It lies beneath me, under the wet grass, cold. That is what is so scary about death.

The lack of warmth. I lie in my bed, watching the patterns of dawn dance across the ceiling. I remember watching a documentary on the Dunblane Massacre, twenty years after it had happened. I could not stop thinking about how cold they must be now. It is an illogical thought. The dead feel nothing. Be nothing. They are dead.

They have not done anything as gentle as passing. It is final and it will not be changed.

There is a man in my bed and he is mine. He lies beside me, under the duvet, warm. The baby is not his. It is before him, beneath him, away from him. I like having him near me. He is not that life. He is not that death. He is the promise of the future, but I know that the future exists only if I can get beyond the past. That is my half of the promise.

There is love between us, but it is not true. Not in the cosmic, entwining sense. We are not identical beings. He believes in a world a little more black and white than mine. The other week I suggested we go to see a film, and he refused because all the critics had said it was rubbish. I thought it looked good. I would have rather made up my own mind. But he is here. And he is constant. And I suppose I am willing to settle for him, just as he is willing to settle for me. The only comfort I need is the passive company of day-today life. The stars needn’t align for us to achieve that.

There will be no baby of our own. That time has passed. The only cry that awakens us is the sun as it, each morning, begins its steady climb outside the bedroom window. I cautiously rise, wor21

ried I may wake him, but he only stirs briefly before falling back asleep. The covers rest back over him, and I begin to move. The carpet is soft under my bare feet. Every morning, I press my fingers to my lips as I walk to the door, grazing them over the photo of her first bath time. When I sat her up she rushed her tiny dimpled hands through the water, excited by the swirling wake they made.

Everything was old to me, but through her, everything was new again. Nothing will ever be old to her.

There is fruit ripening on the windowsill, pale pears turning golden in the warmth. I have always loved to watch them turn. He asks me why, when there is packaged fruit ready to eat. But there is no satisfaction in the crinkle of plastic, no reminiscence of the past, of when I used to line them up to feed her with. I had to; she always spat out the shop-bought pots. I can’t blame her. I tasted one once and it was like eating mud. If I look across the room, I can see her now, in her high chair, fat legs kicking, entertained only by a spoon disguised as an aeroplane, that day’s mush in a mess around her.

It was only when she began to spit out the pears, too, that I knew something was wrong. But these thoughts will get me nowhere.

I look out the window at our square patch of garden, dewed with the summer morning mist.

There will not be a life for her. I will run, and laugh, and lie on soft grass under bright trees. I will be the embodiment of joy, and anger, and sadness, and love. She will not. So I will visit her, in her small green plot under the dappled sun, and tell her of life.

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BODY

Izzy Colvin Breath. Warm, you can almost see it. You trace the line left behind by a sigh, moving your finger through the harsh October air.

Outside you feel different. You feel free. People walk by, barely glancing in your direction. Many move with purpose, others take their time. You feel yourself shiver, your body disapproving of the cold. You ignore it, focusing instead on the sound of leaves rustling against the wind.

Dusk is approaching. Your surroundings adopt a darker hue and you notice your fingers go numb. The wind nips at your face and your teeth chatter in protest.

Yet you do not move. As if your body and mind are two separate entities, your feet beg to walk away but your thoughts say stay.

You shut your eyes, inhale the frost-laden air. Exhale. Watch your warm breath pierce the cold, one last time.

As you walk away, you think to yourself: I am just another body in this crazy world.

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To the one I see in the mirror

Ameerah Ali

Since knowing you, I have spent my Friday nights counting each hair follicle on my body.

It is with your wisdom and reassurance that I have counted each follicle as a reason to love myself.

Since knowing you, I have found on my skin, a million and one reasons to love myself.

Image Credit: Ameerah Ali and Lara Draper Jakobsen Background Image Credit: Evan Austen/Shutterstock.com

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Thank you to the peachiest of teams for making this print-run possible!

Editor in Chief Lara Draper Jakobsen Deputy Editor Ameerah Ali Assistant Editor Caitlin Evans Marketing Officer Grady Musuamba Events Producer Abbie Harrison Workshop Leader Niki Marinakis We also want to give a few very special thank yous. The first, to the QM Arts Society for their beautiful contributions. The second, to Bronwen Eastaugh for answering all of our many questions. The final, to Paul and Ross at WFM for bringing our great little magazine to life. Thank you so much! Without you, there would be no PEACH! Disclaimer: All otherwise uncredited design details in ‘THE BODY’ (including the cover) can be credited to Lara Draper Jakobsen. These design details were created using a royalty-free background image designed by bogatyreva and distributed via Shutterstock.com