2022 Arcturus Online Gallery

Day after day, you wake up with one fantasy living rent free in your mind, only one thing that you can think of, that you want to do for the rest of your life but so many obstacles stand in your way. Shaky and broken bridges that you walk across, cracks slithering down the rocky roads that must be crossed, although that is all mentally. Reality strikes, the bridges turn into grinding through homework in the dark of night, the rocky roads become the hardships of working through the rise and fall of the sun the next day just to get a paycheck, but it will work out right? You aspire to see the flashing lights, so blinding but you don’t care. You desire to stand on the carpet of soft red velvet, in a stunning piece of cloth made just for you. You lust to walk into that theater and see your face on the screen. All you want is just right there, but you can only feel it on the tips of your fingers. 

Maisie wonders how she got to be right here, right now. In her flower shop, gardening gloves on her hands, knees on the hard floor, staring up into her seven-year-old daughters big brown questioning eyes. She can’t have heard correctly but –

“Jemma says so. We’re all gonna die.” Anarchy’s little brows furrow in determination under her wispy blond bangs. When she wants to know something, she doesn’t let up.

Anarchy had been dropped off by the bus only a few minutes ago, her backpack still on her back and puffball hat on her head. Pursing her lips, Maisie brushes her hands together a couple of times knocking the loose dirt off her gloves before sliding them off and placing them beside her. “So,” she says, fingers starting to tremble, “what did she say?”

“Jemma says we’re going to fall into the ocean in an earthquake – her brother says so, and he says we can’t live in the ocean, so we’ll die.” She doesn’t look very worried, only curious. Hungry, even, for knowledge. Death doesn’t scare her yet.

For Maisie, it’s a different story. Thinking about the future of the planet, the future of her children, well, that’s where most of her anxiety comes from. Just yesterday, in the midst of Maisie’s rant about plastic disposable straws (a hill she’d die on), her colleague had asked, “Why in the world would you decide to have kids when you have such a bleak view on the world?” Followed by, “I love your kids, don’t get me wrong!”

“I fell in love,” was the simple answer she gave, “I fell in love, and we decided together we had the skills to give them a future. The skills for them to survive, I think.” She’d looked to her colleague hoping she’d understand. But the thoughts always nag in the back of her mind, who am I to think I can prepare them for a world on the brink of disaster? She never intended to have kids. And her anxiety has gotten worse since having them. But she’s decided they have to be worth it. Perhaps her kids will change the world.

Now, Maisie lets the earthy smell of her shop ground her. She breaths in the fresh dirt scent and tries to exhale the growing dread in the pit of her stomach. My kid thinks she’s going to die.

“Momma,” Anarchy starts –sensing a shift in her mother’s posture, “is the earthquake like the storms for you?” Ever since Anarchy discovered her mother’s fear, whenever there’s a thunderstorm, she’s the first to run to her mother’s side and howl at the thunder to be quiet.

Maisie’s lip twitches up in amusement. “A little bit,” she replies, “thunder scares me, but that earthquake scares me even more.”

“Why?”

“Come here.” Maisie beckons Anarchy closer to the little garden plot. “Do you want to help me plant some seeds?” Anarchy nods, she’s been in the flower shop many times to play or help her mother with the plants. She finally takes off her backpack and sheds her outerwear layer. For a little while they work in silence, Maisie’s small hands and Anarchy’s even tinier ones dig little holes in the soil, burying seed after seed after seed. The feel of the earth between Maisie’s fingers always calms her down, lets her think better.

The shop has been quiet today, no customers at all in the last hour or so, and none since Anarchy showed up. The work they’re doing right now is mostly for hobby. Maisie has loved the earth for far longer than she’s owned the flower shop. She could spend hours doing this one simple task. Fingers sifting through the dirt, nurturing the stuff of life. But it’s not long before Anarchy’s impatience gets the better of her and she asks about the earthquake again, “Momma, is it going to happen?”

Maisie watches her daughter carefully patting dirt over another seed – so unafraid, so worry free. So, she says the hard thing, “Yeah honey, it could happen. It could happen and that scares me.”

“I don’t think I want to die.” Anarchy says frowning down at her dirty hands. “How do we stop it?”

Another hard thing, Maisie’s lips tremble a little as she says, “We can’t.”

Anarchy’s big brown eyes turn up to meet her mother’s matching, but watery, eyes. “Momma don’t cry!” She jumps up and wipes her hands on her overalls. “We just need to plant more seeds! You say the seeds make the earth happy!”

What can I even say to that? Maisie wonders, marveling at the natural resilience that children have, especially Anarchy. Every day she wishes to be a little bit more like her daughter. She’s so strong already, and though yes, some of that may come from being a child still, Maisie knows she’s only going to get stronger, smarter, kinder. Just being around Anarchy makes her feel braver and more hopeful. Maisie wipes her face in the crook of her elbow and gives Anarchy a wavering smile. Together they gather some more seeds and fertilizer, and gardening gloves for the both of them.

“Okay, Anarchy, let’s plant some seeds.”

Anarchy grins up at her mom who smiles right back at her, ready to take on the world again, for today, and always for her daughter.

Late-night drives, window rolled all the way down

As the wind blows and the moon is full

Speeding down the road

Everything is clear, the path ahead of us, our minds

With new problems to worry about tomorrow

With no solutions

Deep into the darkness

Midnight nearing, and hope for a better day We drive,

the town behind us getting smaller and smaller

You take a light; that blistering flame

to the tip of my head––

the start to my demise.

The countless ashes of my kin succumb

to your prayers; sacrificed for the absence of holy statues––

mythology turned into worship.

As I’m propped in rice grains, burning,

in my soon-to-be coffin; I permeate into the air––

transpiring your wishes to made-up entities.

As if the windpipes in your esophagus

were created by gods

& not from the action of human fucking.

A curling wall of teal wraps around her

and she feels each drop of spray

as she glides on her first wave.

A smooth euphoric stroke

of board and sea comes to an end,

the white water crests

and crashes. And she’s spit out the other side.

She turns back toward the open ocean, hoping

to paddle right back

to that first perfect swell.

Beachgoers watch knowing well

each wave will be smaller than the last.

Her board chips and cracks as she rides,

the tides take her in and out again,

and again searching

for that first perfect wave.

For Kiara and Karly – The Angels Over Ballyhoo

They call you “The Angels over Ballyhoo”
But I do not see angels, or ghosts.

I see your toothy smiles
in the rocks on the mountainside.
I hear your laughter in the wind.
Your spirits still felt in the crisp Alaskan air.

My rage – is the crashing of the waves.
Her loss – is the wilting of the fireweed.
Our agony – is the eagle’s cry.

But angels? No. I see two girls
too young. A small town, Unalaska,
shattered. And my sister – struggling
to put together the pieces you left behind.

But this cannot be undone.
A truck, Mt. Ballyhoo, the cliff.
There’s no reverse. No, “try again?”

So instead, I choose to see you –
dancing across the Aleutian tundra,
hand in hand. Smiling for all the world
as if you really are “The Angels over Ballyhoo.”

On days where all is hopeless,
my mother greets me with a luxurious bowl of fruit.
Its colors as vibrant as the summer.
Each piece skinned and peeled to perfection.
Different varieties, cut into geometric pieces.
Almost as perfect as origami.
I wolf down the bowl of fruit,
not knowing that it’s the reason,
why her hands are replete with wounds.

It’s in the bowl of watermelon tips offered by my mother,
who made the best bite of everyone’s watermelon wedges.
It’s in the rambutan with its prickly skin,
only to reveal a soft and velvety inside.
It’s in the perfectly ripe mango chunks,
so smooth,
you can suck them down with a straw.
Naked grapes,
so indulgent,
it felt fit only for kings and queens.
That I realized this bowl of fruit was prepared
by the same woman who works day and night,
whose feet are as swollen as an apple
bursting with juices.

The same woman who had to give up her dreams.
The same woman who gave up her own sanity.
The same woman who was there to support us no matter how sick and tired she was. The
same woman who sheltered us with her open arms.

My mother swallowed bitterness so we could cherish sweetness.
Now when I’m greeted with a bowl of cut fruit,
I’m reminded of my mother’s fragile, but diligent hands.
That have worked hard to shape me into the ripe fruit,
I am today.

I am still burning.
Each breath sets fire to my house of violet flowers.

All I’ve ever known is quiet kept tears.
Thoughts I can only try to

slap, scratch, peel away from tearing skin.
A picture burned into my eyelids,

a show to watch every time I close my eyes.
Deep in my chest, under cracked ribs

is a little girl trying to stop the flames from spreading.
My life ended at the blooming age of seven,

when I was too young to know how the word ‘no’ tastes.
Because how did I ask for it?

In my purple pajamas with precisely four buttons.
What gave her the right to take away my childhood in violet colors.

Gifted paranoia, like a limb I used to choke myself.
Suffocating, until there is no choice but to speak.

To spill rotting guts all over the floor,
and stain the carpet with the truth.

That I have no choice but to tell my mom,
and with the tears of a seven year old,

cry while she holds me.

I was once in the middle
of nowhere in another
world. I am trying to avoid
remembering it,
but it is inevitable.

Experiences are printed in
my head even though they
seem invisible. Clearly
I am still seeing them in
my sleep as I dream of them.

It was a desert with no limit
in sight and its ground was flat.
It rains with dust and using
headlights make it
impossible to see better.

Days were longer than
nights. I never had weekends
as I did not know the difference
in days. And was not
interested in knowing it.