"Everyday Objects" by Eva Dominelli
Two poems by Kaiya Gordon
First Kiss After Assault
tonight, in the damp street, your face
illuminated by the green shells of beetles
adhered to the air around you, I watch
every stroke of your skin. its details
bounce from face, to mirrored bugs, to face,
where you lap up the glow of the bugs.
I knew this was coming. I practiced
my lines for weeks. still, I am surprised
by the turn of you, the lean, the bright,
your grace when I say no, the wet silence
between us, the heady green glow of your
skin, my fall into feeling faceless--
you kiss my cheek, turn away, send me
back over the bridge. my insides form
fists in slow motions. and still, I am
thrilled by the promise of stilled shoulders,
relaxed lips, cheek kisses without shock.
in each fist formed I mourn the absence
of ease I left behind after I was touched
where I did not want to be touched.
everything I ate to stow in myself
the ugly I devoured to keep close, small.
the ugly I devoured to keep close, small.
everything I ate to stow in myself
where I did not want to be touched.
the ease I left behind after I was touched.
in each fist formed I mourn the absence
of relaxed lips, cheek kisses without shock.
thrilled by the promise of stilled shoulders,
trust formed in slow motion, again i come
back over the bridge. my insides warm as
you kiss my cheek, turn away, send me
into feeling faceless--between us, bugs
flutter, masking the heady glow of your skin.
I reach through them, through our wet silence
to uncover your grace, the bright of you.
I lean into you as you turn, surprised
by the flush that comes with touch. I’m afraid
of the harm of being alive, afraid to uncover
the ease I left behind only to find ugly once again.
but in your eyes, where you lap up the glow of night,
I see my eyes, how they soften their strain--
tonight, I watch every stroke of your skin
illuminated by green in the damp street--
is a body static, even here?
illuminated by the green shells of beetles
adhered to the air around you, I watch
every stroke of your skin. its details
bounce from face, to mirrored bugs, to face,
where you lap up the glow of the bugs.
I knew this was coming. I practiced
my lines for weeks. still, I am surprised
by the turn of you, the lean, the bright,
your grace when I say no, the wet silence
between us, the heady green glow of your
skin, my fall into feeling faceless--
you kiss my cheek, turn away, send me
back over the bridge. my insides form
fists in slow motions. and still, I am
thrilled by the promise of stilled shoulders,
relaxed lips, cheek kisses without shock.
in each fist formed I mourn the absence
of ease I left behind after I was touched
where I did not want to be touched.
everything I ate to stow in myself
the ugly I devoured to keep close, small.
the ugly I devoured to keep close, small.
everything I ate to stow in myself
where I did not want to be touched.
the ease I left behind after I was touched.
in each fist formed I mourn the absence
of relaxed lips, cheek kisses without shock.
thrilled by the promise of stilled shoulders,
trust formed in slow motion, again i come
back over the bridge. my insides warm as
you kiss my cheek, turn away, send me
into feeling faceless--between us, bugs
flutter, masking the heady glow of your skin.
I reach through them, through our wet silence
to uncover your grace, the bright of you.
I lean into you as you turn, surprised
by the flush that comes with touch. I’m afraid
of the harm of being alive, afraid to uncover
the ease I left behind only to find ugly once again.
but in your eyes, where you lap up the glow of night,
I see my eyes, how they soften their strain--
tonight, I watch every stroke of your skin
illuminated by green in the damp street--
is a body static, even here?
Mourning Painting
for Cash
Distorted girl, I know you only in tandem. Have seen your name bolded on the sheet of the lost,
heard it whispered in interviews, witnessed tributes on Facebook, on walls.
Girl through fire, through fear, girl.
After you died, I kept your Instagram open for days. Stared into the flowers swept through your
hair until I felt them on my own cheek. Imagined painting you through my phone: softening
your selfies, pouring vibrant color onto your feed until it throbbed. I read testimonies to you,
peered through squared windows into your life.
I worry our lives into adjacency. Worry to see your body mirroring the spaces of my own.
--
For the tarot cards I read, thinking of you. For the photographs my roommate hung on our wall.
For your lover, enemy of my enemies, child of my childhood home.
For the friends that died there with you. For Ghost Ship, which sank in a night. For Oakland:
burdened by transplants, burdened by fire, burdened by us.
--
Is it ok I’ve kept these words all year?
Is it ok that I see you, still, in me? Impose your face onto all of my friends, your death into their
life, myself into you.
Say: Kaiya, learn I am more than the vulnerability of me, more than echoes, than my music, my
art.
--
After the fire I went to Paris, dreamt your face onto my hostel sheets. I carried you through la
Seine, out of le Sacre Cœur, into the bursting artist studios stuffed with flint to be.
My l’inconnue--
I build you in my grief, press the soft spots of my dread into your death. You are the released
burden of a body, the hazed sounds in my head. You are your friend, when she tells me:
redistribute power each time you can.
The edged water Chasms show me when they remember your Pacific’s foam. You are the voice
your lover sings: I will choose how I die.
--
One year after your death, I hold a candle for you in Columbus, let my eyes blur into heat. On
TDOR, I am thinking of you through my grief––a precondition to you as I see you, as I know
you both are and aren’t.
I’m thinking of you in California, where I’ve buried my own heart.
--
Burned state, California bleeds bodies from every edge. Cuts its cities with overpasses, then
spikes the underpasses so they shelter only cars. My state, which hoards the Spanish Missions,
sickly, sweet with stained-glass light. My state, which murders the Natives, the Xicanx, each
time that it can.
I’m thinking of you, of me, of this legacy of burn. Of the Google buses, following behind
wagoned treads. The glimmered asphalt, smoothed over deserts, through apartments, under
patched-up tents. Each border, fenced with razors; each street, filled with cops.
Colonial nightmare, parent of Mourning Paintings, resistance, conflict, life.
--
I’m thinking, Cash, of being with you. To ask you how it felt to hold your body on a stage.
To give you back your body. To know you as your own.
To paint you through the fogged city, the morning light. Paint you in the relief of you, in
transcendence, to be, was.
Distorted girl, I know you only in tandem. Have seen your name bolded on the sheet of the lost,
heard it whispered in interviews, witnessed tributes on Facebook, on walls.
Girl through fire, through fear, girl.
After you died, I kept your Instagram open for days. Stared into the flowers swept through your
hair until I felt them on my own cheek. Imagined painting you through my phone: softening
your selfies, pouring vibrant color onto your feed until it throbbed. I read testimonies to you,
peered through squared windows into your life.
I worry our lives into adjacency. Worry to see your body mirroring the spaces of my own.
--
For the tarot cards I read, thinking of you. For the photographs my roommate hung on our wall.
For your lover, enemy of my enemies, child of my childhood home.
For the friends that died there with you. For Ghost Ship, which sank in a night. For Oakland:
burdened by transplants, burdened by fire, burdened by us.
--
Is it ok I’ve kept these words all year?
Is it ok that I see you, still, in me? Impose your face onto all of my friends, your death into their
life, myself into you.
Say: Kaiya, learn I am more than the vulnerability of me, more than echoes, than my music, my
art.
--
After the fire I went to Paris, dreamt your face onto my hostel sheets. I carried you through la
Seine, out of le Sacre Cœur, into the bursting artist studios stuffed with flint to be.
My l’inconnue--
I build you in my grief, press the soft spots of my dread into your death. You are the released
burden of a body, the hazed sounds in my head. You are your friend, when she tells me:
redistribute power each time you can.
The edged water Chasms show me when they remember your Pacific’s foam. You are the voice
your lover sings: I will choose how I die.
--
One year after your death, I hold a candle for you in Columbus, let my eyes blur into heat. On
TDOR, I am thinking of you through my grief––a precondition to you as I see you, as I know
you both are and aren’t.
I’m thinking of you in California, where I’ve buried my own heart.
--
Burned state, California bleeds bodies from every edge. Cuts its cities with overpasses, then
spikes the underpasses so they shelter only cars. My state, which hoards the Spanish Missions,
sickly, sweet with stained-glass light. My state, which murders the Natives, the Xicanx, each
time that it can.
I’m thinking of you, of me, of this legacy of burn. Of the Google buses, following behind
wagoned treads. The glimmered asphalt, smoothed over deserts, through apartments, under
patched-up tents. Each border, fenced with razors; each street, filled with cops.
Colonial nightmare, parent of Mourning Paintings, resistance, conflict, life.
--
I’m thinking, Cash, of being with you. To ask you how it felt to hold your body on a stage.
To give you back your body. To know you as your own.
To paint you through the fogged city, the morning light. Paint you in the relief of you, in
transcendence, to be, was.
Kaiya Gordon is a writer and poet from the SF Bay Area. They are a current university fellow at OSU and the associate production editor of The Journal. Kaiya writes about local art and music for Audiofemme and The Bay Bridged, and has poems published or forthcoming in poets.org, Cosmonauts Avenue, Glass Poetry Journal, and 1001 Journal. Their favorite karaoke song is "Basket Case" by Green Day.
Eva Dominelli is a Vancouver artist and freelance Illustrator with a BFA in Illustration from Emily Carr University of Art and Design. Her mysterious gouache and ink illustrations playfully investigate the relationship between the private and the public experience of the everyday. She is currently working on her upcoming artist’s book Between Being & Nothingness.
You can view more of her work at evadominelli.com, on facebook @evadominelliillustration or on instagram @eva.avenue.
You can view more of her work at evadominelli.com, on facebook @evadominelliillustration or on instagram @eva.avenue.
