First date & Yunus & Reminder to self on the keihan line (uji->gion-shijo) (Copy)

First date

First date. I'm sitting across from this woman, dainty, pretty, yoga-type woman – she talks about the female body and traveling in Europe and

how she couldn’t possibly live in Latin America because of the collective suppressed trauma unacknowledged, how she doesn’t have the

connections, the roots to be able to engage deeply–

And I roll my eyes, like okay sure white guilt, you are unable to live in a place because it is uncomfortable (please tell me why it is

uncomfortable) 

And I realise

(Suddenly)

I am jealous

That she can feel at home in a place–

not even just a room or a building or a postcode, but a country, a continent

And feel the hands of her mother and mother’s mother and mother’s mother’s mother on her shoulders without it feeling like a threat or a

promise

And that I do not understand this feeling

And for all the things that she will never get, I never get this

Chameleon skin shimmering, intelligent, resourceful, resilient enough to plant myself anywhere in the world! And survive! Thrive if you squint and

are looking through the cracked lens of neoliberalism! 

Last year as the days started to get longer I wanted to plant flowers in my backyard

Picked out pink fuchsias, plump and full, carnations tall, proud (chin up)

Compost and fertiliser and gardening gloves with tiny bees on them

Dirt on my face and in my hair, I pulled bindweed milkweed blackberry

And was only able to dig three inches into the ground before I hit a bed of rock and stones

I stuck them in the ground, roots barely covered, not with the fertile soil of heritage, lineage, wisdom passed down through specific

combinations of spices the way to position your tongue in your mouth on the “dh” how to fold a sari but with the found connection of oh, you’re

different too, do you too know that feeling of a part-amputation of the soul, the ghost of that lost bit lingering in the abstract space next to your

heart 

And I am so jealous

That this is another thing that she gets to lay claim to, this 

Oh my home my country my homeland my people–

And I quest for it, find a sliver in the postcards on my wall, the indomie and linghams well-stocked in the cupboard, the shalwar I wear on a

regular work day

I seek it in the crook of your arm where I fit molded against your chest to cheek

a limpet maybe if I become a part of you break the boundary between us I can have some of yours

But it is not something that can be shared so easily

I lie in my bed alone, after this shitty date

I wonder how it is possible to miss something you never really had

To grieve for something that does not exist 

She said, this was such a lovely evening, I hope we can do this again

Deep, meaningful eye contact, hand on my upper arm, it's like she’s expecting me to read her mind

I smiled, lie easily

(familiar, expected)

Cocksure grin, lean forward 

Baby it’s like coming home

Yunus

I

You were in my dream last night

We were lying in the sand

It was grainy beneath my fingers

Even though you know I prefer a pebble beach

We were looking at the stars

Defining constellations

I'd never been able to pick pictures out of the sky before

A big fish floated across our gaze

Mouth open

(I know this is a sign, because I am a pisces and venus is actually in retrograde right now)

I wanted so badly for it to sink down and swallow us

To envelop us in its guts 

A little gross, sure, but imagine– 

A warm beating heart (hearth)

Walls that breathe (reliable, but not restricting)

Plucked out of the regular passing of time, a moment captured still, a snow globe inside this belly

Of getting sand stuck in my teeth and the weight of your hand next to mine (the barest of touches, little fingers hooked together, still an anchor)

and the echo of my voice as I sing carelessly tunelessly, stirring noodles on the edge of burning and lightness a lightness the lightness of

existing

II

And it aches, there’s an ache for this, a recurring injury kind of pain for this pocket place of familiarity 

I want to scream

I know it I know it so well I know it’s good 

And it is good

And there is also a realisation, slowly, gradually, and maybe this is what it means to know yourself

That scream the indignant know-it-all frustration of a kid that did not have the privilege of knowing better

In this shelter there is no light (although my skin is translucent the edges of fingertips glowing red against the heat of the sun)

The warmth cloys moist stinky stale

I cannot open the window, there is no window and sealing off the outside is the only way i know how to make a home

The ribs around us a cage 

Wings pinned down where I can see them 

I woke up and turned to the space you would have been

Hair sticking up, pillow crease pressed into your cheek 

Clear as birdsong

Ringing in my ears

Reminder to self on the keihan line (uji->gion-shijo)

When the sun splits the sky open

And blue spills out 

Splashes onto rooftops

When the train windows are big enough that you can watch the fields running into each other

And you are running too

The clouds whisper 

You sing, badly, and it doesn't matter 

How could I possibly not be in love 

With this world, with you

---

Sabrina (they/she) is an artist of many modes. They enjoy bright colours, the sound of the ocean, and a really good stretch. Their work continuously orbits around the ungraspable concepts of belonging and home.

The Devil and I

When he sinned, he was the first to fall, 

And in that moment he embodied all 

The madness and malice in the hearts of men

And made an example again and again.

But why did he sin? Some'd call it greed 

Or an ever persistent and desperate need 

For control, power, lust, and praise

Stolen from a God unpleasant, unfazed.

I think it not; I think his demise 

Stemmed from waking; he recognized

That his praise wasn’t for glorious things—

But to please the ego of a biased king.

Did he, like me, stumble in the choir,

As the sopranos sang higher, higher!

And in his mistake, did he hear the lie

And realized for him, the Son wouldn’t die?

Did Lucifer, too, see lists of those 

Sinners, for which the Son then arose?

Killers and cheats, the rich and the cruel 

All earned a place beneath heavenly rule.

But not him; not the Eve’s who dare love

Lilith’s like Adam’s; never the doves 

That fall for crows; pregnant Mary’s as well–

We have no place. Our home is hell.

I think he was scared, feared the truth;

Divine love is biased, porous, uncouth.

And in this thought, he wasn’t alone

yet He scorned them all—right from His throne.

Because in the end, he sinned all th’same

And Father’s forgiveness never came.

God‘s love has limits; you may protest, 

But it stops when you speak the doubt in your chest.

Did Satan then sob, smite down by Him?

Did he feel lost, alone, and grim?

Did he lose his religion, like I lost mine?

Did he disturb a father he'd mistaken for kind?

And when he fell, his wax wings melting, 

Did the devil cry with his skin welting 

From the scorching heat of the sun in the sky

As God scorned him with His burning eye?

Who knows what came first: Free will or sin?

‘Cause to me, at least, they’re one of kin.

The choice to fall was never really his;

We all lust for free will like an Icarus.

I don’t want to sing ‘til the stars wink out.

I don’t want to be burned forever for doubt.

I don’t want a god that has His son die

For mistakes He made when making you and I.

But if I am tired of singing praise

To a god that scorches me with His gaze—

If I choose the path He doesn't therein lie

Does that make us the same, the devil and I?

---

Soniyah Wiggins (any and all pronouns) is a genderfluid African American that grew up in the southern United States. They were actively a part of the nonprofit literary magazine called The ECHO through high school, and it truly sparked their love for literature. They hope to one day publish a book, but right now they’re taking it one short story, poem, and essay at a time.

Instagram: @soniyahwigg

“It costs £6 to apply for a Gender Recognition Certificate...”

which is bullshit, considering that

“If your application is unsuccessful, 

you cannot get a refund.” It is bullshit that

you need a Gender Recognition Certificate 

to marry, die, divorce, or register with HMRC 

with dignity. So much for all being fair in love, death 

and taxes. It is bullshit that 

“The Gender Recognition Panel will look at your application...” 

considering that

I could not find a single like-minded person on this [so-called]

panel. The panel knows nothing about 

me nor what it is like to be born

in the wrong body. Even if “The panel is 

[allegedly] made up of people [allegedly]

with legal and/or medical qualifications,” I do not 

agree. “The panel will 

decide whether the application meets all the necessary 

legal requirements.” Including: the completed form;

an original birth certificate; a deed poll; “Proof” that you’ve “lived 

in your acquired gender” for at least 2 years—which takes 

the form of a passport, driving licence, bills, payslips, other correspondence

at least every 3 months; at least 2 medical reports, one of which has to be 

a medical practitioner from the “approved list” (please note: 

you must pay for each medical report); and finally, if married, written permission

from your spouse. 

[NB1: This process does not comply with the United Nations 

Human Rights Commission guidance.] [NB2: This does not negate nor nullify 

the Supreme Court's “clarification” on the legal definition of

a woman.] 

“Finally, please note that the panel will usually look at your application 

within 22 weeks of applying. The panel’s decision 

is final. No correspondence will be entered into.” Which is bullshit. This is all 

bullshit. I just want to make sure they print the correct gender on my 

suicide report.

---

Faye Chung Underwood (she/they) is an Academic Tutor and PhD candidate at the University of Warwick. Her poetry appears in The Page Gallery, Kamena Magazine, Tales from Tarot, and others. When not reading or writing, she enjoys yearning, playing the lyre, and staring at cats in rescue centres.

Instagram: @fayewritespoetry

What It’s Like To Be Brackish

When you don’t get to choose your name, you know yourself only in a foreign language. 

your mother cannot lay claim to you

and her history at the same time – 

When you don’t get to choose your name

whether you belong or not is entirely up to your birth certificate.

Who would want to belong to this?

A world where names need no singing.

I fear the world where I suck it up and suffer / my voice stays one hue / my body, stranded, a stagnant pool / chlorinated / commodified. 

When you don’t get to choose a future body, you stay small. eggshell sticks to you. 

You find yourself

obsessing over an invisible ‘X’ on every registration form and important document.

Start to feel crazy seeing what could be 

around every corner, reaching for the in-between -

When you don’t get to choose a future body you feel yourself? On the edge

of unwinding – the clock ticking down – you can’t hold the blood back this time.

God these walls are too thin, too stained with memory. I can hear too much of myself dying. 

I am trying to recover

my body from the water/ from the rot / but I fear they are the same now.

How can you outgrow something stuck to you? 

It is too cramped inside this chrysalis. I am a jar with a label meant to be scrubbed off, upcycled into something more fitting.

When your body is a host for unwanted growth, it is not a blessing. You’ll never understand

because it won’t happen to you. 

It’s a real-life horror movie and I’m the victim in my mind / the killer in yours.

---

Ari Kamara (they/them) is a Bermudian writer, artist and filmmaker.

Instagram: @apocalypse_ari

Transing gender: a body in motion

Trans-prefix
: on or to the other side of : across : beyond

-There were times with friends when we played house with her and I’d always be the husband. Thought it was just me being gay. It was actually me embracing my masculinity. 

-I’m 8 and got lost in the grocery store. Smarty pants knows to go to the help desk and ask. They calm me down and announce over the intercom, 
“Sarah’s Mother. Your son is at the service desk.” 
My mom doesn’t show up because she doesn’t have a son.

-12 years old. Checking out books at the library. The librarian takes my card, looks at me, and looks at the card. “This isn’t your card. Did you take your sister’s?”

-I’m 19 and just learned at a workshop what genderqueer is. The definition: me. I’m elated. There’s a word for it!

-I’m wearing a nametag. A person reads my name: Sarah. They look at my body: masculine with skin that is some kind of brown. They guess pronunciation: 
“Saar-rahh? Zarrra? Sahara? Like the desert? Is that where you’re from?”

-At a quicenera and I need to pee. I’m a family friend; most people know me. Shouldn’t be a problem. Walking into the women’s room, I hear 
“Chico, este es un baño de mujeres!”

-Eventually, I realize a privilege to my presentation: if the lines to the women’s restroom are too long because the audience at this boy band concert is 90% women, I can use the men’s without anybody batting an eye. But why are the floors sticky?

-At a different concert, I head towards the women’s room. With my hand on the door handle, a security guard sprints up to me. We lock eyes. I know that processing face. While they try to figure out if I belong in there or not, I’m just going to do my business.

-Why do people laugh when I tell them I get yelled at in bathrooms and locker rooms? Yes, YOU know I’m not a man, but tell that to the strangers who see my body at a glance and go fight or flight on me. 

-I liked the way my body looked when I was a gym rat. The women in the locker room didn’t. Sometimes it’s a hassle to change in your car. So I don’t go. 

-Election time, and I can drop off my ballot early. No ID required. Super easy and convenient. I hand in my ballot with my name in the envelope, ready to confirm my address when the volunteer pauses. 
“…can Sarah not turn the ballot in herself?” 
“Oh, I’m Sarah.”
“No you’re not”
I checked my ballot later. It was counted. Bathroom Bill still passed. 

-At my new job. People ask my pronouns. Great! I love it here!

-Later on, in a meeting. People respect my pronouns. They just think I’m one or the other. So they correct each other on my behalf. 1 minute of correction per meeting. 104 minutes a year arguing over “she/they.”

-My binder with the genderqueer flag DIY sewn on doesn’t fit anymore. I’d rather get top surgery than try sewing through a binder again. 

-A reunion with an old flame over coffee. She asks: 
“So have you started transitioning? Most of my exes have come out as trans. New pronouns?”
Flame extinguished. 

-2022: Oh! Some states offer you the option to change your gender on your ID to reflect your identity. That’s a cool thing I might do later

-2025: “As of today, it will henceforth be the official policy of the United States government that there are only two genders: Male and Female.”
Never mind then. 

-I might go back in the closet a bit and ride this storm out.

---

Sarah (she/they) is a Media Studies graduate who uses their degree to write for fun. They most enjoy writing about media and being mixed.

Website: thelesbianword.wordpress

Swish swish, the saree pleats go & Machine & Sister

Swish swish, the saree pleats go

Swish swish, the saree pleats go

I'm lost in ten year-old reverie

Feeling my girlish fantasy

My mirror affirming my new apparel

Unable to reflect the inevitable peril

Twenty-four years have passed

Those memories as fragile as glass

RSVP no to all the weddings

Not knowing where I'm heading

Unsure of what to wear

To any hindu family affair

Fourteen going on thirty-four

Feels like adolescence once more

Wondering how much connection to forgo

Days spent inside, quiet and forlorn

Pass by storefronts, pause for the bait

Mannequin couples holding hands

Which outfit must I recreate?

The one in slacks and a collared shirt

I'd feel at ease

and cover up my hurt

A cleave in my reality

A fracture in identity

This feeling so uncanny

So I ask out loud "Why now?"

to the fleeting clouds

An arrested development?

Then left to brave the elements

Compfem riding waves of validation

A performance now awash in humiliation

The writing was on the walls

The scaffolding coming apart

How will I tell my parents?

Knowing they'll chalk it up to

mental illness?

Appa's suicidal tendencies

Amma's hidden family history

Chinna Anna's autism a mystery

Periya Anna's schizophrenic onset

- my parent's greatest agony

So grab a gurney for me

I'll fulfill the family legacy

Machine

Updates brought forth daily

Up to the minute news

Uptown excited over gold rush

Us folk scroll our devices

To learn of what looms

Each headline

more chilling than the last

Automatons more than assistants

CEO says staff layoffs imminent

Drone usage grows increasingly illicit

ChatGPT prompts deranged and explicit

Illiteracy rates on the rise

Cognitive capacity in decline

Manikins VS Mankind

Androids bring forth human demise

Bots takeover dating apps!

I fling my phone across the room

Within seconds I reach to hurl my laptop

But catch sight of more promises

of digital doom and gloom

Loneliness epidemic continues to rise

Mattel collaborates with OpenAI

Therapy at the low cost of Gemini

Woman falls in love with AI

The rise of intelligent WiFi

Humans surveilled and dehumanized

Techno-anxiety and starved of intimacy

No choice but to

become one with machine

Sister

Matching heart necklaces, engraved

Playing hooky at the cinema, unspoken

I've never stopped searching

You don't want to be found

Shame, guilt and fear, profound

Letters that cross the Atlantic, handwritten

Swapped stories and poems, vulnerable

I'm now stranded in the middle of the ocean

The loneliness anchors me, unbearable

Makeup strewn and hair tools tangled, girlhood

Warm bowls and cozy blankets, blood bond

Even if the writing is on the wall

How can I ever turn my back

on our grandmother's soul?

My truth too heavy for you, loaded

I swallow every word of inconvenience, bloated

Tension between us growing, atmosphere

Smiles and laughs for the cameras, revered

Lost colour in our faces, seasick

You never said a word before leaving, overboard

This sinking feeling in me, capsized

I go on living life without you, monochrome

You say you don't see it that way, ultraviolet

Years pass us by and you still deny it

So I grab hold of a buoy and save my goodbyes

For the ghost of my sister,

who no longer replies

---

Mathangi Ketheeswaran (she/they), 34, is a Tamil-Canadian poet, activist, and lover of books, beaches, and queer media and storylines.

and yet we move & clamshell hearts/love pearls & never too much

~ and yet we move ~ 

there is no feeling more

sacred than watching your

petals, closed coils of pink

velvet, unfurl at early dawn

rise toward the light, baby

pull me in by the neck

and tint my lips

with honeydew

so sweet my pupils dilate

and i’m high on the certainty

that the way we move

is no aberration

so whoever’s got an issue

with us can take it up

with the Celestials

and watch Them laugh

as we continue to orbit,

too in love to notice

Them reminding the haters

the stars they came from too

~ clamshell hearts/love pearls ~ 

you return to dat riddim

under the sea

often.

coral reefs part and

the bed is indented

with foot grooves.

sunken to a shape

that knows you.

likkle trunkfish scuttle

briefly

before rolling their eyes

and remembering that

you are not a guest here.

you are melted ice

tiny particles travelling

at the speed of light

an inhalation of

chemical reactions

an exhalation of

lungs —

you return.

to dat riddim

dat riddim

dat riddim

under the sea

to lay palms out

reopened for pearls

cracked and dug

out of wombs

believed to be

too barren to borne

relief is carried

inside the bubbles you

exhale.

those fringing reefs

hug your spine

as you tread the sea bed

keeping you up

the bigger your pearl becomes

the bigger your pearl becomes

the more it protects

big belly laughs

murmured sugar

the ecstasy of your celestials’ zenith

within its clamshell

nuff times you flee

this rising sea

fling the clamshell

rippled with riddims

it has often hurt

to hold

you tell yourself you’ll prise it

open again

when you're richer

when you’re freer

when you’re healed

but remember:

you can only bury this pearl

so deep and

so many times before

it stops growing

and the clamshell births only

emptiness.

~ never too much ~

catch a ride

on the breeze

little Black girl

the way seeds do

bury your feet

in deep earth

and watch leaves

sprout

from your fingertips

let them gather

the rainfall of

tears you cry

and use it

as nourishment for

your roots that

live to love

and anchor you

those leaves soon

grow big enough

to shroud the

pressure to be

perfect in shade.

little Black girl

remember that you

are the sun

setting expectations ablaze

you hold all

the elements of

life

little Black girl

so never let

anyone tell you

you’re too much

for this world

over time your

confidence will plant

hope

for those who

come after you

will honour the

stars your ancestors are.

you are living

their wildest dreams

little Black girl

so be as

loud as thunder

as soft as

wind across seas

and never forget

your beauty is

shaped by nature

and nature makes no mistakes.

---

cora dessalines (they/them) is an afrofuturist poet, writer and creative contributor based in south east london. drawing from the imagery of the cosmos, their writing focuses on themes of love, loss, and rage from a queer Black perspective. you can find their most recent work published in sweet-thang zine, iamb poetry and YOU'RE NEVER TOO MUCH, a poetry anthology published by pan macmillan in september 2025. they have previously been published in spazio griot, bad form magazine & lacuna literary magazine.

Website: coradessalines.com

Instagram: cocco_x

Baby they & Where are you from & Coming out twice

Baby they

The first time you shaved your head

Felt the peach fuzz of a baby’s soft scalp

All night, you could not stop touching it

As you smiled yourself to sleep

Then you learned why you always hated perfume

Because the only options were flowers and fruit

Femininity was a garden and

You belonged to the forest

The first time you smelled cologne

On your own collarbone, you realised

You didn’t want to fuck men;

You wanted to be them

In fact, a whole world of options

Now opened up to you

A corridor of long-lost secrets

You meet yourself in the hall of mirrors

A walk-in closet inviting you in

(Different from the claustrophobic one

you had to come out of)

Shop the men’s section at the thrift store

(Now you understood why

you always liked vintage clothes)

Replace makeup with gel, clay and mousse

(You never understood the female joy

of finding the perfect lippie; you always

felt like a sad clown in drag)

Leave your house in baggy clothes

Not to hide your belly fats

Like the girls taught you

For Christmas feasts and premenstrual bloat

Good riddance to hot babe curves forever

And everyone who told you

Comfort was never your right

That beauty comes at a price

Today you show off your bare earlobes

Float in the weightlessness of

Unextended eyelashes

Unmanicured nails

Undrawn eyes, unmade face

Unplucked brows, unwaxed pussy

Show off those unshaved legs

You undo

Your lifelong masquerade of a woman

And rest, finally at ease

In the freedom

Of never having to look beautiful again

Where are you from 

You ask me, even before

You know my name

What answer does it take

To be the right kind of Asian,

A good immigrant?

Does it matter what country I say

When you come prepared to tell me

You have been to Japan anyway

Even though my country

Is seven hours away?

Does it matter where I am from

When all you want is to prove

You know the words for hello and thank you

Would you like a round of applause

For using my language to show off

Your sophistication

(Do you mean appropriation)

And is that why it doesn’t matter

What kind of Asian I say I am

Because to you

We are one and the same?

When I tell you the answer

Sometimes you fall silent

Disappointed, or afraid

To let slip your ignorance

Sometimes you get real close

And pick my country’s neighbours

Or name another island city state

With skyscrapers and chopsticks

What outcome shall I best hope for?

Even if you know where I am from

You romanticise and exclaim—How clean!

How modern!

You wait, eyes like a puppy

For the bone of my approval

And grateful delight

That someone like you, actually knows

Where someone like me was born

But I don’t quite understand

For I have been to your country too

And I don’t tell you what I know

Or what I really think

So ask me again, where are you from?

Or tell the truth and say what you really mean:

Where on the hierarchy shall I place you?

Coming out twice

To the straight community

I got a tattoo and my mother asked me

What does your husband think?

Then I shaved my head and my father asked me

And your husband is okay with that?

I came out to my straight friends and they said

I thought you are married?

I told them I was bi and they asked

How do you know? and

Are you sure it’s not just a phase?

I found myself justifying, explaining

Excavating—long-buried, private memories

Of feelings I had long ago, but did not know the word for

Then they asked, Omg! Are you in love with me too?

And then, Won’t your husband worry

That one day you will cheat on him?

So I laid out all our wounds on the table, anxious to prove

He still loves me, it wasn’t easy, we are seeing a therapist

But nothing has changed (even though everything has)

Their eyes widen, as though in disbelief

Girl, you are so lucky to have a husband like him

Lucky you, I don’t think my husband ever could

Meaning: Poor guy, I feel sorry for him. Why doesn’t he leave?

When I get back home my husband asks, Honey how did it go?

I smile and say that my best friends have accepted me

I don’t tell him I feel like shit, like I have betrayed him, and us

In ways worse than kissing a girl at the club

To the queer community

I arrive in London full of suitcases and hope

Finally! A place where I can just be me

Where I will find my community, chosen family

And they will see me for who I am

I have waited all my life, to come home

I pull out a chair and introduce myself

Unlike back home, the people here do not assume

I am straight by default

But I still feel like an impostor, when I hear them

Talk about their same-gender partners

And the sweet sapphic things they do together

So when the time comes for me to speak, I say

I have a partner too. I don’t tell them I am married

And do everything I can to avoid saying his name,

His pronoun. Everyone here identifies as a lesbian

And I am terrified to take up space, I feel

Maybe I do not deserve it (I do not deserve to be here)

I have never kissed a girl and I don’t wear flannel

Suddenly someone asks me about my Big Three

And I have no idea what they are talking about

I feel my body shrinking as I smile and try

To disappear into the corner of the room

My ears perk up when I heard someone say He

It is a femme person talking about her partner

Hope rises in my heart; maybe I am not the only one

I listen attentively, hang on to every word

Later, I realise her partner is a trans man

And I am so jealous of her (I have no right to be,

What do I even know? I am someone’s wife

While so many queer couples around the world

Can only dream of this basic human right)

When I get back home my husband asks, Honey how did it go?

I answer honestly this time, tired and defeated

He tells me, I am sorry to hold you back from your happiness

I say no, you are my happiness

As I fall back home into his warm, safe arms

————————————————————

Author’s note: Coming Out Twice seeks to capture the nuances of growing up in a deeply heteronormative society, and the particular moment of recognising my queerness later in life after years of cishet conditioning. Within the Global South, there is often the (colonial) illusion that the “West” is inherently more liberal or progressive. Yet this poem only begins to gesture toward the deeper complexities of how migration shifts my racial identity, and how that identity intersects with my queerness in predominantly White, Eurocentric queer spaces.

Biphobia, transphobia, and racism remain very real within our communities. When queerness is reduced to aesthetics or limited to the gender of our partners, we lose sight of its political and intersectional roots. True queerness must recognise the web of privileges and oppressions we each carry, and use our lived experiences as bridges toward empathy and solidarity. At its heart, queerness should be about collective liberation — refusing to reproduce harm and instead committing to the freedom of all oppressed peoples.

---

Eve Lee (they/them) is a queer Asian migrant & nomadic poet who has made homes in London and Singapore. They write about home, healing and humanity through a decolonial and existential lens. Longlisted in the 2025 Thawra Poetry Competition, Eve’s work is featured or forthcoming in The Seventh Wave, the other side of hope, Breadfruit, Writing Our Legacy and Synergi Project. They are a resident with Seventh Wave’s Fall 2025 digital residency, Narrative Shifts.

Instagram: @suitcaseofpoetry

Spoons Are Also Mirrors & Mother Tongues & Grief Is A Feather

Spoons Are Also Mirrors

Dissatisfactory, ugly.

The mirror should've never been made,

Our eager eyes become sinister.

Even my reflection in your eyes

Is warped, distorted. 

I feel like a picture without a frame

When I see myself looking back at me.

So deeply unmoored, that reality

Shifts like sand. It is uncanny to see myself

Smile, frown, cry. This absurd similarity

Veers into the valley of verisimilitude. 

Spoons are also mirrors. So are the

Innumerable fracturings and redelegations

Of sand that

Shifts into glass, tinted in every colour

Except what the eye really sees. 

I can't escape what I see so clearly,

Fractals of myself leer in my periphery.

Mother Tongues

This is a feeling more akin to a prideless hurt than sorrow.

Strange, how my throat swells, my eyes burn. 

It’s like a glowing ball of molten lava is trapped in my throat.

The size of a lemon, a melon, a boulder?

It’s futile, it all feels the same. Farfar angrezi can’t help me now. 

My grief is unconsolable.

Grief Is A Feather

Grief is a feather with clumps of blood, forever stuck.

I’ve bleached the feather with the whites, beaten it alongside the carpet, 

But the blood is unrelenting. I’ve tried boiling the blood, 

Sticking the feather between the frozen peas and chips, no luck.

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Yusra Adeel (they/them) is a queer British-Pakistani poet fascinated by untangling perspectives beyond their own. Their work explores identity and grief (among other things) through various poetic forms. Currently an undergraduate student, they are learning to interrogate belonging and mourning as fundamentals of the human experience.