"3.16.2025"
content warning for gun violence

I deeply slit my thumb in two on a can while
making pizza, cussed as the sink filled

with blood. It didn’t seem to stop and

I thought, for a brief second, this is what
it means to die. This is what it means

to end a life. In Georgia, six Asian-American
women were shot and murdered today. Two
others were also killed. I didn’t know this

as I clutched a drenched paper towel to my finger,

holding back tears as scarlet began to bleed through

the thin layers. I saw a woman crying outside.

It seemed as if she would never stop crying—

this was hours before the incident.

Was she weeping for me? Or the onslaught

of spring? She shouldn’t walk alone. My

Momma always told me women aren’t

safe, worried for me when I was alone in

a big, seemingly empty city. A man on the

subway once told me I looked like I held

a lifetime of sadness. I wanted to say

I swallow the stones, the burden, of our

history each day. As the stones accumulate,

this is what it means to choke. That some

of us won’t make it out. But he will. He almost

always will, unless collateral damage. The woman

picks up her pace until she is jogging, looking

over her shoulder as she crosses the jagged

street. I wish I could tell her to stay

safe as I try to stop the bleeding.

"TO LOVE SOMETHING FLEETING--"

We had forgotten our ancestors

had stolen the kingdom’s fire. They

tried and tried again, until they succeeded.

The flame was snuffed out immediately,

the land left in darkness. It was a curse.

We eat dinner covered in the light

of night, play theatrics of a complete

family. Momma says we don’t believe

in family folklore while lighting

candles. She clutches a knife to her

chest like a cross, swears that she hates

the kitchen. My father was a cook,

we never saw much of him. We say the

heat of the kitchen stole him away.

On Sundays, when it rained, he came

home and cooked Iranian food for us.

One day, this table will slowly empty,

no one left to eat the dishes of saffron

rice and kabobs. My mother keeps

forgetting to blow out the candles before

she goes to bed. No one will be left

to steal the embers, blow out the

flames, of what was once our history.