Morning fruit cut from the grandmother’s knife
          Its sweet droplets weighing dust

                                            Its halves eaten then saved under a napkin
                                Wet veil drinking what it touches—

This is what the cockroach siphons
          The day’s sequence drawn through its hindlegs                              

                                             The replay of the mother’s sandalled feet
                                Galloping to the near toilet & the daughter’s

Bare feet vinegared
          With what cleans the floor 

                                              How she also sits with a bent leg raised
                                & nods to the father’s reminder that tomatoes

Are good for the prostate
          That tomatoes are only good for sons

                                             How the father stows leftovers once cooled
                                & how during Easter, returns the carrots to the fridge

How after school the young son
          Races Hot Wheels off wall moldings

                                             While an egg explodes in the microwave
                                Overdone with Vienna sausages & rice

How when the children crave ice cream sandwiches
          The grandmother offers Vanilla Bean on pan de sal 

                                             The trust that meat is better served
                                When torn from the bone by the mother’s teeth

Or that fish is best eaten by hand
          To feel for the bones in each morsel

                                             Crumbs may lead some home in fairy tale
                                But the cockroach comes for the memory

Its antennae sway in life’s recounting
          Vicarious worry to check the stove

                                             The humming of a song
                                In a language rarely spoken

The hesitation to eat the last piece
          The shame of being wasteful

The dark trek through the kitchen
Eyes closed avoiding what’s there—




Published December 5, 2021

Shannon Pulusan is a writer and illustrator based in Jersey City. She reviews poetry as an editorial assistant for Flock, teaches poetry for NJPAC’s City Verses, and draws round-faced characters with triangle noses and pepperoni cheeks under the name moonmemo. She is a proud Fil-Am creative who calls NJ, FL, and Namyangju, South Korea home. Her work has been published and is forthcoming in The Banyan Review, Bridge Eight, SRPR, Underblong, and more. She is currently a poetry candidate at Rutgers Newark's MFA program.

Born in Victoria, British Columbia, Amy Brener is an artist based in New York. Brener received a BA in Studio Arts from the University of British Columbia in Vancouver, an MFA in Sculpture from Hunter College in New York, and she attended the Skowhegan School of Painting in Maine. Her work has been exhibited by galleries all over the world, including Jack Barrett Gallery, Essex Flowers Gallery, and MoMA PS1 in New York City, Reyes Finn in Detroit, Nasher Sculpture Center in Dallas, MacLaren Art Centre in Ontario, Erin Stump Projects in Toronto, Galerie PACT in Paris, Wentrup Gallery in Berlin, and Riverside Art Museum in Beijing. Brener’s artwork is also part of permanent collections in New York, Dallas, Kentucky, and Germany. More of Brener’s work can be viewed on her website.