summer, 2021.
hello vonnie
cherry valley forever
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i don't do bad sauce passes
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if i look back, i am lost

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@bonepsalm
summer, 2021.
what are heaven’s visitation hours?
tiramisu in bed.
BEWARE THE IDES OF MARCH!
I can’t believe it’s been 2,069 years since Julius Caesar was assassinated, ( crazy, it felt like yesterday he was still around ).
To mark this occasion, I wrote & publish my first poem on substack, inspired by this glorious holiday! It’s my first time using substack so I hope the formatting is okay, but I’d appreciate if you guys can check it out! (: please! please! please!
History remembers the moment the knife appears. What it rarely remembers is the moment before—the promise that made the blade possible.
okay time to disappear before I get stabbed next.
Naranjas En La Palma De Su Mano / Oranges In The Palm of His Hand
Todavía puedo olerlas antes de verlas,
una fragancia dorada que flota en el aire—
cítricos frescos, como el sol atrapado en su cáscara.
Abuelo las sostenía en sus manos callosas,
con la misma ternura que la tierra abraza sus raíces.
Con la uña del pulgar, deslizaba la piel con paciencia,
sin apretar demasiado, sin derramar el jugo de su corazón.
Me miraba, con una media sonrisa y un leve asentimiento,
mientras partía la naranja en dos, tan fácil como si partiera el cielo.
"Toma, es buena para ti."
Si dudaba, su ceja se alzaba con dramatismo.
"Anda, cómetela antes de que me enoje," solía decir,
la broma danzando en su lengua, su risa en el aire.
Y yo, con un suspiro fingido, cedía siempre,
porque cómo decirle que no a las manos que me alimentaron de amor.
El jugo era dulce, a veces con un beso de amargura,
pero siempre generoso, desbordándose entre mis dedos.
Me reía, las manos pegajosas, la culpa derramándose en mi regazo.
Él reía más fuerte, con la voz del viento entre los árboles,
señalándome, con sus ojos llenos de burla tierna.
"No es mi culpa, es la naranja," protestaba yo.
"O tal vez es tu culpa, Abuelo."
Ahora las naranjas me miran desde el frutero,
la misma fragancia, el mismo sol en su piel.
Las pelo con la misma paciencia que él,
aunque mis manos no son las suyas, aunque la risa ya no resuena igual.
Rompo la fruta en dos, siento su peso en mis palmas.
Miro a mi hermano, a mi hermana, a quien esté a mi lado.
"Toma, es buena para ti."
Y por un momento, el eco de su risa vuelve a casa.
—vie.
English Translation
I can still smell them before I see them,
a golden fragrance drifting in the air—
fresh citrus, like sunlight trapped in its skin.
Grandfather held them in his calloused hands,
with the same tenderness the earth gives its roots.
With the edge of his thumb, he peeled the rind with patience,
never pressing too hard, never spilling the juice of its heart.
He would glance at me, a half-smile, a slight nod,
as he broke the orange in two, as if splitting the sky itself.
"Take some, it's good for you."
If I hesitated, his brow would lift in mock sternness.
"Go on, eat it before I get mad," he would say,
the joke dancing on his tongue, laughter thick in the air.
And I, with a sigh of pretend defeat, always caved—
because how could I refuse the hands that fed me love?
The juice was sweet, sometimes kissed with tartness,
but always generous, spilling between my fingers.
I would laugh, my hands sticky, guilt pooling in my lap.
He would laugh louder, like the wind through the trees,
pointing at me, his eyes full of playful mischief.
"It’s not my fault, it’s the orange," I would protest.
"Or maybe it’s your fault, Abuelo."
Now the oranges watch me from the fruit bowl,
the same fragrance, the same sunlight in their skin.
I peel them with the same patience he once did,
though my hands are not his, though the laughter is softer now.
I break the fruit in two, feel its weight in my palms.
I look at my brother, my sister, whoever sits beside me.
"Take some, it's good for you."
And for a moment, his laughter finds its way home.
—vie.
Writing Notes: Stages of Decomposition
The decomposition process occurs in several stages following death:
Pallor mortis
Algor mortis
Rigor mortis
Cadaveric spasm
Lividity
Putrefaction
Decomposition
Skeletonization
PALLOR MORTIS
The first stage of death.
Occurs once blood stops circulating in the body.
The cessation of an oxygenated blood flow to the capillaries beneath the skin causes the deceased to pale in appearance.
In non-Caucasians, the pallor may appear to develop an unusual hue; the skin will lose any natural lustre and appears more waxen.
Occurs quite quickly, within about 10 minutes after death.
ALGOR MORTIS
The cooling of the body after death.
The cooling process will be influenced by many factors, including the deceased’s clothing, or whether they are covered with bed linen such as blankets or duvets.
The body will typically cool to the ambient room temperature, but this alters if there is heating in the room or if there is a constant draught cooling the body.
RIGOR MORTIS
happy international women’s day, 2025
Soft Paws, Hard Spines
She does not count the difference in fur and thorn,
does not press her nose to the fault lines where softness
breaks into bristles. They are hers, because the night
delivered them to her breast, trembling, motherless.
Their mother—
her breath now a silence in the tall grass,
a hushed thing swallowed by the wind.
The moon watches over her stiffened frame,
her children left blinking in the dark.
But the ginger one comes, amber-eyed and resolute,
a hush of warmth against the cold orphan-scattered earth.
She gathers them between her paws,
licks the scent of sorrow from their backs,
teaches them the rhythm of a purring heart.
Her kitten, all milk-drunk and drowsy,
meets their black bead eyes and knows:
these, too, are his own. They do not look alike,
and yet—
he curls around them, shares his mother’s lullaby,
lets them press their needled faces
into his unguarded belly.
A mother is a shelter, a bridge of breath between life and loss.
Not blood, but the way she does not flinch
when the smallest one pricks her tongue,
when the night folds heavy over her children
and she stays, a beacon of warmth in the dark.
Love does not ask for likeness.
Love only knows the sound of a heartbeat,
the weight of tiny bodies trusting in the dark.
And so she loves them, all the same—
her child of silk, her children of thorns.
— vie.
— beau taplin
Ottessa Moshfegh, from "Eileen: A Novel," originally published in 2015
Salma Deera, "Salt"
Alice Notley // Warsan Shire
Franz Kafka, 1912
Me to myself
what resembles the grave but isn’t, anne boyer // i didn’t apologize to the well, mahmoud darwish (trans. fady joudah).