EDYTHE RODRIGUEZ
Mikai no. 1
the pain resettled in his eyes the second I stopped kissing him. Like the taste of me warded off whatever hunted him. helped him run. I wanted to whisper back, There are faces and bodies that haunt me, too. that won’t let me forget. I tilt my head back to his and we both drown. and the ghosts quiet. and I run with him.
Mikai no. 2
midnight was full
of moans and Joe’s
Greatest Hits.
he dug slow and
deep, almost look
ing for something.
midnight was full
but morning was
cold. empty.
a stillness to
our dressing.
I stole glances at his
tattered back, wincing
each time. I’d scratched
him halfway to hell,
nails digging and look
ing for something.
in the pile of clothes
and morningafter,
we pretended we
weren’t empty or
searching for a damn
thing. also, pretended
we’d found it.
Mikai no. 4
we pretended not to hear the ghosts return. always on time. always louder and whispering a new threat.
we threw embarrassed looks across the table. face full of regret and you’re still here? floor full of
magnums and empty popeyes bags. room full of numb brown eyes.
“I am a Philly-based writer who studied Africology and creative writing at Temple University. As an African Renaissance poet, my work is a call for aggressive healing and sankofa. I received a fellowship from The Watering Hole and my work has been published Sonku Literary Magazine, Call and Response Journal, and Bayou Magazine.” -Edythe Rodriguez