Passed Down Sem Megson Her kitchen shelves, repurposed wood on iron brackets, sit in the sun’s path through an open window. There, among her dishes, rough plastic cups scatter light. They were passed down to her with scars of teeth on the rims. Hunger eats into surfaces malleable as skin. For her at eighty, these heirlooms—my word, not hers— equal silver goblets with Lion Passants. What’s more, their scars have transmuted over the years to become an indication of worth. She knows her people bit into water to feed the work of their hands. They bore the brunt, sweeping the earth for another’s jewels. Nothing fell sparkling into their cups like sunlight. She is warmed by their memories glowing through this bond of generations. It is a part of her own coming to terms. Her hands hold where their fingers held, a grandfather, a cousin, a matriarch wrapping tight. Her lips press into their mould, coiled as DNA. She is in the history of their hallmarks. Sem Megson’s poetry and plays have been published and produced in the United States, the United Kingdom, and Canada. Sem lives in Toronto. For more information, visit semmegson.com.
Palimpsest Frank Modica Suppose you tattooed your life on broad stretches of arm, back, stomach, thigh— intricate pictures, of your deeds
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