"Haunted Town" by RowanArtC
Two poems by Yvanna Vien Tica
Poem in which I explain what the world is like without my hearing aids
The world spins a little
different when it’s quiet—sunlight heaves
into its younger self,
disrobing lifetimes the way a bird jumps to escape
its own kin. By this time,
birdsong is nothing but a word I imagine hearing
through the news reports
telling viewers to seek peace at all costs.
Everything is accentuated
by sorghumed blood rushing lazily
into the ears like a whisper,
and for once, my fists loosen their clasped mouths
shaped like hunger. Even if
a war starts over my head, I will hear nothing but the faint
wisps of smoke. Well-meaning
people always note how empty I must feel when deaf
and clouded over, ears just
glasses hung by mist. Isn’t silence so demanding, waiting for you
to reveal yourself as
a casualty of survival to the world, they explain. Outside,
I imagine the birds still
singing for their lost children, the guns still readying
for another sharp seizure
of laughter. Listen, there are some sounds better left
adrift for a moment, for the sun
to claim as it grazes the horizon, searching,
and leaves for home.
different when it’s quiet—sunlight heaves
into its younger self,
disrobing lifetimes the way a bird jumps to escape
its own kin. By this time,
birdsong is nothing but a word I imagine hearing
through the news reports
telling viewers to seek peace at all costs.
Everything is accentuated
by sorghumed blood rushing lazily
into the ears like a whisper,
and for once, my fists loosen their clasped mouths
shaped like hunger. Even if
a war starts over my head, I will hear nothing but the faint
wisps of smoke. Well-meaning
people always note how empty I must feel when deaf
and clouded over, ears just
glasses hung by mist. Isn’t silence so demanding, waiting for you
to reveal yourself as
a casualty of survival to the world, they explain. Outside,
I imagine the birds still
singing for their lost children, the guns still readying
for another sharp seizure
of laughter. Listen, there are some sounds better left
adrift for a moment, for the sun
to claim as it grazes the horizon, searching,
and leaves for home.
Song of Solomon: An Epilogue
We find ourselves waiting
for the sun, its steady gaze, the way
it spreads and blooms like warm breath
over the earth beds still pregnant
with half-sowed tulips. The children play
by the stream in the backyard, laughter
already bright as summer, bursting fresh
like those Georgia peaches you
always tried to hide from my sharp mouth; and
there’s a flush of vertigo in the air,
as if the winter slush still loitering the driveway
permeates the dry perfume of loss.
To be honest, sometimes I wake in the night still thinking
you were in the room next door, head
arched over a rustling page of the Psalms, drapes drawn
and cast over you like a veil. Did I
ever tell you how beautiful you looked every time
you stopped to taste the spring
even while the snow still pulled down the door?
It’s startling, the years, how they
make you forget the slow crawl of it all. It’s as if
I am still waiting for you to come
home, even after our children become someone
else’s parents. And yet, there is
something comforting in the way the sun grazes
the trees like a matriarch, how
the wind echoes all your laughter from many springs
ago. As if I can always find you
nestling by the stream in the backyard, those Psalms
unabashedly naked to the stars,
those eyes of God, He who alone knows how much
I’ve searched for your next appearance,
for when everything dull and reeking of grief transmutes
into the beautiful tapestries of spring,
for which we wait each year.
for the sun, its steady gaze, the way
it spreads and blooms like warm breath
over the earth beds still pregnant
with half-sowed tulips. The children play
by the stream in the backyard, laughter
already bright as summer, bursting fresh
like those Georgia peaches you
always tried to hide from my sharp mouth; and
there’s a flush of vertigo in the air,
as if the winter slush still loitering the driveway
permeates the dry perfume of loss.
To be honest, sometimes I wake in the night still thinking
you were in the room next door, head
arched over a rustling page of the Psalms, drapes drawn
and cast over you like a veil. Did I
ever tell you how beautiful you looked every time
you stopped to taste the spring
even while the snow still pulled down the door?
It’s startling, the years, how they
make you forget the slow crawl of it all. It’s as if
I am still waiting for you to come
home, even after our children become someone
else’s parents. And yet, there is
something comforting in the way the sun grazes
the trees like a matriarch, how
the wind echoes all your laughter from many springs
ago. As if I can always find you
nestling by the stream in the backyard, those Psalms
unabashedly naked to the stars,
those eyes of God, He who alone knows how much
I’ve searched for your next appearance,
for when everything dull and reeking of grief transmutes
into the beautiful tapestries of spring,
for which we wait each year.
Yvanna Vien Tica is a hearing-impaired Filipina writer who grew up in Manila and in a suburb near Chicago. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Competition, The Kenyon Review, the Young Playwrights Festival, and has appeared or is forthcoming in the Filipino-American Chicago newspaper MEGAscene, EX/POST Magazine, DIALOGIST, and Hobart Pulp among others. She is the Editor-in-Chief of The Faith Review, a Genre Editor for Polyphony Lit, and a Poetry Editor for The Global Youth Review. In her spare time, she can be found enjoying nature and thanking God for another day.
RowanArtC feels that the work should speak for itself and invites the viewers to go wild with their imagination. The world within us (random thoughts and emotions) is a rich spring of inspiration for her work.
