Issue no. 2: matters of the heart
painting - singha hon
poetry - kayla farrell

He peels back    
the page of his calendar; it feels like    
peeling a scab off an old wound.    
The date sticks out like a tombstone    
on freshly cut grass,    
and he looks cautiously on the grave of memory.    
It took a whole week    
to remove the bobby-pins. One by one,    
like pulling splinters out of his palm.    
Now, a year later, he still finds strands of hair    
clinging to corners and table legs.    
It took a whole month to carve out the feeling    
of emptiness.    

The first few weeks it    
sounded like a foreign language    
when they had asked what had happened;    
her name barely touched his lips.    
Now, when he thinks about saying it,     
he imagines it dissolving on his tongue.