knifeless

Touch me, hands at these roots, pulling scalp
from hurt. Say sorry, forgiveness rings through
drenched wind. Hello means goodbye.

Dungngo, see my wants. My country tousles
my fat. My systems. Spout to bark. The slipping,
the call. Her detached finger in a gentle fist.

I was a kid, yet knew harm. Knew that to feed
is to care, is to find the blood, spot the shedded
layers of life. To arm yourself is to greet me.

Flee

Lemme speak to the shore
which gave me these
bumps lovingly. Thin rings
which died once plucked.
Fangs in the corner,
buried in our backyard,
breaking my turf &
tightly whistling at night.
Pinakbet stirring itself.
My forward ocean & the perspiration
of its body. Bricks break
pigeons’ skulls. Pack
nothing & I bring
my navy bra. Cupboards
blow wide not only in
rainy dreams. This
isn’t where—just how
trying to adjust. To
feast. Precision of small
steps leading, yes,
guiding us to
the trees with split
lychee & the spooned
hope.

Aaliyah Anderson (she/her) is a Black and Asian American student at the University of Mary Washington majoring in English: Creative Writing and American Studies. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Third Coast, The Madison Review, Brink, and elsewhere. Winner of the Poetry Society of America's 2024 Student Award, Aaliyah currently resides on Monacan and Patawomeck land and is obsessed with burnt cheese and intersectional storytelling.