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Joey Isjwara

if an alien decides to research about humanity

billions of kilometers away,
asterisks from manuscripts
murmurates into a time capsule
floating mindlessly in space.
leaving the cliffhangers
& spellbinding tales once
pressed to their centers.
now, caking the keyboard
and pens of writers. the only
baggage their already collapsing
star-bone veins could carry
are spilling stories; leaving
a shower of excerpts and half-finished
words in the atmospheres of
undiscovered planets. our mind
fleets away the endless trail
of stories like another piece
of fresh oxygen our alveoli cradles
for a moment before forgetting,
resuming its affair with carbon monoxide.
like the car ride from home to school.
like the everyday sunrise hidden
behind asphalt highways and asylum-white
houses. like how an array of warmth
hits the windows every evening.
like a jazz tune playing from a house
we just passed by. like the split-
second pianissimo before a crescendo.
 
 
in the time capsule sits a grand piano
nestled in between endless strips
of stories where the words shuffle
into the keys and play a melody:
do-re-mi-fa-sol; add a chord or another
and a bit of decrescendo to the touch.
silent enough to not crescendo
the stories that humanity prides
itself to be—another epic hero's journey.
thumbing through many light years,
mends numbers and stories
as we hit the high do. salvages
the ripples of the pond in a
meadow in its middle sol. balances
limbs as we play mi and fa.
sprinkling the same soil we step
on every day that never seems
special with a symphony played
by an orchestra hidden to
our senses. listen closely
 
 
to how the words turned song
follows sea foam that dies
as soon as it rises. follows the blades
of grass scratching running shins.
follows the laughter travelling
across the pacific ocean. how
despite all the heroes, we make
ourselves up to be, how despite
we still taped back fragments
of our pride after the tower
of babel, the soil still pulls
us down, whispers in a tongue
only we speak, kisses our skin
and lets the music of mundanity
satin stitches our beings back whole.

Biography

Picture
Joey Isjwara (she/her) is a Chinese-Indonesian writer and student. She loves reading, listening to ABBA, and playing with her very adorable dog. Her work is published or forthcoming in Juven Press, Hecate Magazine, and The Hearth. She wishes you a wonderful rest of your day! Find her on Twitter @saneginger.
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ISSN 2639-426X
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  • Home
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  • Issues
    • Issue 49
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    • Issue 46
    • Issue 45
    • Issue 44
    • Issue 43
    • Issue 42
    • Issue 41
    • Issue 40
    • Issue 39
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    • Issue 37
    • Issue 36
    • Issue 35
    • Issue 34
    • Issue 33
    • Issue 32
    • Issue 31
    • Issue 30
    • Issue 29
    • Issue 28
    • Issue 27
    • Issue 26
    • Issue 25
    • Issue 24
    • Issue 23
    • Issue 22
    • Issue 21
    • Issue 20
    • Issue 19
    • Issue 18
    • Serenity
    • Issue 17
    • The Audio Room
    • Issue 16
    • Issue 15
    • Issue 14
    • Play It Again
    • Issue 13
    • Issue 12
    • Issue 11
    • Issue 10
    • Issue 9
    • Issue 8
    • Issue 7
    • Issue 6
    • Hand to Mouth
    • Issue 5
    • Issue 4
    • Issue 3
    • Issue 2
    • Issue 1
  • Submissions