December 10, 2023 - Rahil Najafabadi’s “Meeting Place”
Off all grids of snowy moments after bed,
the day is just a similar alley and forgotten name.
So I grew to like many stories about the people
and battles between them, and I chose to live
to write to you. Sometimes we say we will call
but we wind up meeting for tea first thing
and the morning gets colder than our drink.
My different notes of unchanging winter tears
always find their way to you. They become dry
and my words become stiff like every attempt
to be someone else. There is no more gold left,
just strange metals I taste in my sleep, and I have
nothing. The missing steps on the stairway are easy
when I can skip a few nights and drift with the wind.
I go up when no one is near, I only climb the light.
December 3, 2023 - Rahil Najafabadi’s “Working Clock”
An illusion on its way and I’m prepared to ask
questions. Where my thoughts go when my hair
falls to my waist––the cold feels sharper in the rain.
My fingers run through every bone on your back
and you feel the laugh before it comes like a sting.
I thought winter is meant for the inside and fire escapes,
like the pot of lapsang tea, I am now reminiscent of wood,
of earth, the musky moment after that freezing rain,
and we circle the picked flowers that are bent around fire.
We leave them for days and the fire has gone out,
the wick is missing. Our citrus ornaments have dried
but the rain keeps pouring between us finding a train.
December 2, 2023 - Elizabeth Lerman’s “Evening News”
You let out a slow stream of smoke and swear under your breath as something bites you. The bugs shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be here. Both have overstayed their welcome. One more bite and you’re back inside, watching the way he and May watch the television, the local news logo shining in their shared eyes.
“Anything new?”
“Nothing really.” His eyes are fixed on the ancient, static skinned screen.
“What’re they saying?”
“Searching the area thoroughly, same as last night.”
“New developments!” May screeches, shoving a bony finger forward.
“They won’t say what.”
“They might say – shh, they might.”
They don't say.
“They found something,” May says, nodding certainly. “Allan will tell me.”
“He’s not allowed to tell you, mom.”
“He does, though,” she says, still nodding, “he does.”
November 28, 2023 - Rahil Najafabadi’s “Waiting for Honey”
Waiting for Honey, Ink on paper, 2023.
November 26, 2023 - Rahil Najafabadi’s “Circle of Hot Sugar”
My hands are burning from a hot scoop of sugar
that I’ve kept in my palm for you. It was a taste
of the sunrise in my possession, and then it was
gone. You never had it, and it was washed away,
but the circle of thoughts still burned about you.
Again, I gathered roses with my bareness and tore
my clothes keeping them away from my skin.
This time it was for me, breathing by the window
with an idea of tomorrow. No vase, any drop of water
the picture in my head is gone now, and it’s the same
as the desert with an abandoned car and a few cups
of tea. Some honey for my scar and a long sleep
to remember my own dream before I step into it
in wakefulness.
November 21, 2023 - Rahil Najafabadi’s “Editors remark on things changing”
and just stirring near the sewer afloat
the leaves that can’t fit into the drain.
I feel like the patch of heaviness under,
my skin is orange with the day and thin
when the water is warm. could I make
my tea in this corner, no one wants to
write here. alone with ground thoughts,
the ones meant for the tub or across
the asphalt––we drive with no music on.
do editors care about braided lines
about dead lovers on pages with kisses?
November 19th, 2023 - Rahil Najafabadi’s “Safety Blanket”
One of the times we keep our eyes closed
when the waves lift us from beneath our
feet. We feel a shift in our stomach, like
the plane––I’m suddenly above myself.
I see the people from a heated dream,
where I just want to escape all the sheets
and all the layers of woven trauma,
fabricating who we can really be alone.