One of the most enriching, forward-thinking, fastest-growing online creative communities flourishing right now is the Poetry community, especially in those scenes that centre on marginalised voices — Women, POC, Neurodivergent, and LGBTQ. Poetry Spotlight is a feature aiming to showcase the work of some of the most talented creators we’ve discovered making waves on the Internet literary circles, inside or outside the mainstream. This fourth installment is devoted to the work of the great Indian-American writer Jasleena Grewal.
Jasleena is currently the senior writer and Arts editor of Kajal Magazine, a zine dedicated to highlighting the creative scene in the South Asian diaspora. She has also contributed pieces for Brown Girl Mag, Yes Magazine, Positive.News and The Seattle Globalist, among others. Her poetry was recently featured in the latest issue of Moss Lit, a journal centred in the Pacific Northwest.
Peep Show
I saw your rattling motor,
sweeping amber, an autumn fire
folio, leaves shed like loose pages, capered and flit at the ankles.
In the almost-clearing I heard your gaze.
Leaves lowered with the disarmed blower,
weapon in the face of truce. The quiet met us.
I stepped towards it. The brisk morning ribboned
our cheeks; we wore pink. You clicked the motor back on,
this time a toy, revved bit by bit.
The leaves danced like posies, a tiny orchestra
before me. In paucity left there for the next girl,
lined and twirling like origami.
So I thought until I looked back.
Combed away.
Inside and Outside of me
mouth
body of a womb
scarlet, almost black
champagne glass
silk stitch
a coned spinner
warbles
on cherry wood
emerald heart
in the thoracic steppe
bones pucker
a grid
white muslin
glossed silver
a trochanter’s head
percusses a ball
tambourine
father
muffled
in castanets
soma trail
Window Seat
Rain
drops dollop
Gleaming on
glass and gutters
(wick off Gore-Tex)
Pouring, pelting
pelts reflect
a million amoebas
acidic lava–
languid leopard spots
on leather,
perforated.
Click the car
door open
Boots bang on
beveled ground
Somnambulars scurry
through Seattle.
Love in three encounters
The half-life of love is forever. -Junot Diaz
1
11 pm. Whatever they’re having, you said, sweeping your arm our way. The bartender serves you and Julian whiskey sours. Julian goes off with my friend. I go off with you. In your bed, in spite of the sloshing in my stomach and my kaleidoscope vision, I try, with all my might, to remain articulate and seduced.
I am woken up by my gag reflex; my tropical-design-cheekies are still on and for some reason (thanks) you didn’t try it. Hot dog contents buoy in champagne, all over the white comforter. Then, your frenetic outpour—It’s ok. It’s ok. It’s ok.
OK. I am picked up, wiped clean, and propped back down like a doll. I am mortified and surprised. But more than anything, I am tired.
2
11 am. My eyes crust open to my clothes you folded. I can’t look at you; I am greeted with a deep kiss. Another one, another.
Damn, what did you eat last night? Was it bacon? Do you feel better now that you yakked? You look like Ariana Grande. Do you want to see my designer shoes? I’ll find your friend for you. Let’s call this number. Here is her stuff. You’re welcome. The feta wrap and orange juice is my favorite, too. I have to drive to Portland. My friends are waiting.
Why isn’t he rushing. I find out later he’s never been that late.
Do you want to go to dinner with me?
OK. Sure.
3
11 pm in a speakeasy. I tell him about the night I died.
He catches me crying after a passionate session, like quasars ripping the sky.
Are you OK?
I am so drunk, again. I can’t remember what I said.
In the morning, we stare at each other’s faces for minutes, minutes at a time.
4
11 pm. I walk to his tenth story apartment after seeing a horror symphony two blocks away. My period is on its first pink drops and I never knew someone could find it so palatable. After a while, we are tired.
I’m naked save my anklets, thick and dripping silver. My legs are swung over the small of his back, his left palm cradles my feet and they chime. The massage is deliberate and steady. The city hums through the window. There are so many things we talk about.
I am ready to go now. His automatic tug, strong and elastic. Words the same. No, stay.
OK.
But now I really have to go. Thanks for your jacket. On my way home, he texts me, “How’s your Uber ride going babe?”
Do I know anyone else made as kind?
5
8:45 pm. There is a boy who likes me at school. We are going to a house party. I’m an hour late; he calls me as I’m on the highway. “Where are you. You’re coming for sure, right?”
I text the other one that I’m wearing his jacket to a party and thanks. I pasted flash tattoos over the curves of my breasts, two crescent-lines of gold leaves cupping the top edge of moons.
The boy from school is lionized upon the sight of them. “Thank you,” I say.
As we later move outside en route to a club, I almost forget the jacket. The boy yells, “You don’t need it” and stops himself from pulling me from it. He almost strangles himself in the torment. The jacket didn’t look like my own.
The other one hasn’t responded to my text. He won’t for weeks.
6
5 am. I am hungover and two microwave dinners deep but I promised my friend a trip to the North Cascades. We are there for a conference and lots of important people are around us all the time. I skip most of the hikes and sleep all day. I look out the window and see a deep blue sky I’ve never seen before. It’s the kind of arresting color you only see steeped in wool—a navy cerulean, flat and rhapsodic like a jay’s wing. The ponderosa leaves grow in perfect formation, it’s the only time I’ve witnessed golden ratio.
My friend talks over me every night. I’m so sick of her, but this place is healing me beyond bone.
We are in the remotest part of the mountains. There is no cell phone service, saving me from my mind.
When I return to the city, there are no texts. I cry, so angrily.
7
The month following, I am contacted and ignored three times. My friends crowd around me.
His messages sound like mass texts.
He’s immature.
He doesn’t want to talk to you.
You’re way too good for this guy.
Stop replying.
OK.
