Akademicheskaya Metro Station Sixty-four meters underground: vaulted ceilings whiter than eggshells, chrome shinier than any American diner. Pride of Lenin, who, mummified, did not see it open but extolled its nominal achievement by plaque five meters tall. On the escalator, my hand in a grey fingerless glove finds yours. A second couple kiss…
I was born in the eye of a koláček––
my jelly center plucked from the trees
in my grandparents’ backyard
bathroom bucolic a pupil, dollop of toothpaste pink blue yellow cotton balls in the static light a gracious not swarming not fermenting pale May Ottavia Silvestri is a political science student that lives in Milan, Italy. In her free time she studies Mandarin and volunteers in a tiny cat shelter (hi Melinda, you’re my favourite…
For the longest time, I walked alone. I walked to think. I walked to see. I walked to be seen. I see them, now. They wear pretty summer dresses, or jeans. In winter, brightly coloured scarves. Their light backpacks sit squarely on both shoulders; inside each, I imagine, is a book, a notepad and a…
Hamamatsu: home of unagi pie –– a biscuit made of eel.
Iwakuni: bridge of Samurai –– beer with strangers under blossom.
In the Turkish supermarket, you search through baby peaches and it makes me feel closer to you.
Image by Alex Avalos, via Unsplash This is the place you go to bury or burn the person you love. – You are in a cinema with friends, or a boyfriend, or your family. No-one is ill, no-one is cross, and you have enough money to waste on a cinema ticket and popcorn and fizzy…
Slathered in a vernix coat,
you slithered out to my relief
with ten toes and two perfect hands
bunched into tiny fists.
I tightly pull back my hair into a slick, low bun, parted far on the right side of my skull. With a several pumps of hairspray, I even out the edges and create a stiff look. I squeeze the top button through its hole and stand up straight as I clip the bow into its…
her son. Can we get
horchata? No. Not today.
It’s Tuesday. Treinta tacos?
De asada? Para llevar.
The wait’s worth it.
Cutlets (also called potato chops), much like my family and their language, resist any attempt at tidy or singular classification.
You die if you worry, die if you don’t. I laughed the first time he said it. I hadn’t heard it before.