after Hala Alyan
look this eyelash grows the tree
old as methuselah. the way the bristlecone pine turns in and in
makes your unborn daughter laugh. what falls
out of my mouth is a moon. the tide shifts when my mother
is too tired to decide what’s for dinner. the end of summer
is a meal to me as tomatoes plush
in olive oil at the back of my fridge tint the sky
red. i eat a sunset to end the day
when i like. you and me we were right
to make a potluck but it’s not for disaster after all. there is no
storm spreading bad thoughts. i am
not sure that’s true but by the time
we arrive at the party we know
there’s resource
in our introversion - inward folding toward the heart-
wood. my whims are always vacationing
and don’t invite me. i was wrong to make a disaster of this
anxiety. it makes the ocean boil.
the moon can rise to our lips so just
ask me to calm the fuck down. i dare you.
if i can just quiet my thoughts the air will filter
herself smooth. this tree will grow
your daughter.
we’ll all laugh.
Contributor’s Notes
Emily Mitamura is a PhD student and poet living in Minneapolis. With commitments to women of color feminisms, critical refugee studies, and postcolonial thought her work takes up afterlives of mass and colonial violence, particularly the performative and narrative demands placed on those in their wakes. Her poetry follows continuous archival, relational, and bodily hauntings. It has been nominated for a pushcart prize and has appeared or is forthcoming in PANK, the lickety~split, AAWW: The Margins, Nikkei Uncovered, and elsewhere. You can find her @emilymita on twitter and emilymitamura.com.
