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.
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
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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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