"Sea of Flora" by Vian Borchert
Tiffany Aurelia | Two poems
What We Lost Growing Up
I watch as my reflection treads apart from me, shattering
into rivulets of a halted song. Tell me it is not too late.
Ribs thinned into fish filament. Algae tightening around
the river’s trachea, spiny like a noose. Waves drowning in thirst.
When I unplug my ears, nothing recognizable whispers back.
Only the river mouth, straining at the shore for sustenance,
every breath begging fulfillment that I do not have enough
to offer. How strange it is that we can love too much, but
we forget how to love ourselves. Hands cupped, I call
for the current and plead a remembrance. Is there a
better way to revive a broken body without
drowning? Little one, you are not too late.
The past still lives, and I’m swimming there to find air.
Here wades the child with her heart still whole, cheeks
blushed as purple as the berry-print walls of her room.
Young enough to dive into any body of water without
wanting to break the reflection that stares back. Her pulse
still dancing through the current, cradles my body
with its unbreaking heart-psalm. Here is our future curled
into a halo around my wrist, one beaded pearl for each prayer.
There is solitude in recognition and I will clutch
onto every buoy of my past child, fingers tugged
into the reminders of who I used to be — a future
both ours. If yearning was as easy as drowning,
then let me feel her presence in every river
I jump into. Let my body recognize who it can be.
In the rebuilding of broken bones and water,
let the river remember its name — if not for me, then
for her.
into rivulets of a halted song. Tell me it is not too late.
Ribs thinned into fish filament. Algae tightening around
the river’s trachea, spiny like a noose. Waves drowning in thirst.
When I unplug my ears, nothing recognizable whispers back.
Only the river mouth, straining at the shore for sustenance,
every breath begging fulfillment that I do not have enough
to offer. How strange it is that we can love too much, but
we forget how to love ourselves. Hands cupped, I call
for the current and plead a remembrance. Is there a
better way to revive a broken body without
drowning? Little one, you are not too late.
The past still lives, and I’m swimming there to find air.
Here wades the child with her heart still whole, cheeks
blushed as purple as the berry-print walls of her room.
Young enough to dive into any body of water without
wanting to break the reflection that stares back. Her pulse
still dancing through the current, cradles my body
with its unbreaking heart-psalm. Here is our future curled
into a halo around my wrist, one beaded pearl for each prayer.
There is solitude in recognition and I will clutch
onto every buoy of my past child, fingers tugged
into the reminders of who I used to be — a future
both ours. If yearning was as easy as drowning,
then let me feel her presence in every river
I jump into. Let my body recognize who it can be.
In the rebuilding of broken bones and water,
let the river remember its name — if not for me, then
for her.
For the Stone-Boy
Based on the Indonesian folk tale of Malin Kundang
Today, a son approaches the waiting shore.
His mother, ears pressed against the folds
of foreign sails, pretends that
everything dead still makes sound. Trades
the days for prayers, her voice growing hoarse
like axes digging into dead trees.
Ibu, waiting to be called.
Where the mother can name every
changing shade in her son’s face,
but still, the boy drowns his origin. Every
denial gleaming like blood
scrubbed clean and lost to water.
The boy skinning his mother empty
the same way he used to skin his fish -
hook dragged against spine, forgetting
the tenderness of bone.
Ibu, teethed into a carcass with
too much spit and no mouth.
Ibu, now knee-deep in the calloused
blue, grips the tide with her grievance
as she pulls and pulls and pulls.
Leaves the storm’s fate to God.
Centuries later, on the banks of a sweetwater
beach, they will find the boy hardened
with tears and turned into stone,
his body kneeling into itself like a prayer
awaiting retribution.
Today, a son approaches the waiting shore.
His mother, ears pressed against the folds
of foreign sails, pretends that
everything dead still makes sound. Trades
the days for prayers, her voice growing hoarse
like axes digging into dead trees.
Ibu, waiting to be called.
Where the mother can name every
changing shade in her son’s face,
but still, the boy drowns his origin. Every
denial gleaming like blood
scrubbed clean and lost to water.
The boy skinning his mother empty
the same way he used to skin his fish -
hook dragged against spine, forgetting
the tenderness of bone.
Ibu, teethed into a carcass with
too much spit and no mouth.
Ibu, now knee-deep in the calloused
blue, grips the tide with her grievance
as she pulls and pulls and pulls.
Leaves the storm’s fate to God.
Centuries later, on the banks of a sweetwater
beach, they will find the boy hardened
with tears and turned into stone,
his body kneeling into itself like a prayer
awaiting retribution.
Tiffany Aurelia is a South-East-Asian writer and student from the bustling city of Jakarta, Indonesia. Home to a constantly traveling mind, poetry is her vessel to give her tumultuous, wondrous thoughts a home. She is an editor for Polyphony Lit.
Vian Borchert is an established artist and poet exhibiting in the US & internationally. Vian is a Notable Alumni from Corcoran GW University. Borchert exhibits in museums and key galleries in major cities like NYC, DC, LA, London. Borchert's art is in embassies and collections worldwide, along with vast coverage in publications. Borchert is an art educator in the Washington DC area. Borchert's artwork can be acquired via "1stDibs" and "Artsy" marketplaces with auctions. Website: www.vianborchert.com
