A Soul Table for Grandma’s Death
By Tara Tulshyan
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Tell me why flour blooms in my belly // crumbled grains
bloating my skin so that I cannot see past my knees // The egg yolks curdle next to the wolf berries /overripe/ I have to wash this bread with jasmine // only the ones whose buds are pulpy in the spring // My stomach is sick with cream/ white fat / cold from a cow that is turned into sinew // Tell me why my belly shrinks // when I eat the rice with grandma’s bare palms // fat puffs that tear every so often // around a table with polished citrus and burning sawdust // I take one scoop of Mama’s milk skin // the meat to every dish // And grandma’s fingernails which can cook any stew // When there are only slabs of wheat or yeast // Mama says it is better not to have a stomach // a job posting pinned to the country club
By Tara Tulshyan
do you want to live in dasmarinas where you can hear madam’s manolos scraping against the marble while her voice ripples down the steps but you will be too busy looking at the red sole of her shoe to realise that she spreads dirt on the floor and she will blame it on you anyway since she cannot hear her accent that snaps off her tongue when she tries to say english phrases or when she unconsciously adds -eh to every letter or once when she told you to only use a microfiber cloth to wipe the italian marble only one stroke remember or else it will leave rings like the eyes of the koi fish she bought from nagaoka but now they are fat with feeds bloated until the water fills them inside-out in the pond on the yard where madams friends have merienda everyday but they only have jamon and berries because you cannot find them here and do you want your breath to smell like swiss dark chocolate and petals of gold between your teeth and do you want to silently auction for jewelry worn by royals because the sun will lower itself for the diamonds like those in madam’s ears that casts white grain on the table every time her head turns because her bleached skin reminds you of white uniforms she forces her helpers to wear the white that is spotless the white that screams i look after someone else’s children for a living so ma’am you do not need to worry about these children whose ears are stitched with diamonds like yours you just need to drape yourself in goyard fabric and remind them that you are the daughter of your father and dasmarinas will adore you before you can even speak?
Tara Tulshyan is a sophomore living in the Philippines. Her works have appeared on, or are forthcoming in DIALOGIST, The Ilanot Review, and Fleur-de-lis Press. She is currently an Editor for The Woolgathering Review.
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