Mayalu Press

I will not waste your love

My friend and I find
ourselves in the same place,
happy and terrified.
We talk and walk in circles,
under the trees, echoing
against each other,
unfurling our tight chests,
dropping our fears out
of our open mouths. I am scared,
I say. Terrified, you say.
We both love someone and are
reflections of each other,
drawing each other
out, spelling each
other out.

I am afraid of hurting
people, I say, meaning
her, but also everyone
I’ve already hurt, and
everyone who will come after.
I am afraid of being happy,
you say, meaning we both are.

You will always be good,
you say, even when you’ve hurt.
You will always be good
because you will always care.
I remind you what you said
back when you were even more a mystery —
I will not waste your love.
I know you well enough now
to know I am speaking to us both.
Maybe to waste is not to end, or change.
It is to hide and run.
“Love is for those who want the work of it,”
you say, paraphrasing.
We shake on it.
You push me in the swing, making
me laugh.

In times like these, we rely
on our favourite poets.
You misquote Joseph Fasano.
I imagine myself as Andrea Gibson.
From the swing, you speak a poem
and say I gave it to you.
How could we not live and love
with such company?
How could we hide
when we act just like each other
and make ourselves so light
and silly?
You are eternally infatuated
with people in the future
knowing that our poet selves
were friends. They will
imagine much for us,
which is to say, you imagine
much for us.
I listen to you swing and I
imagine you happy.
Which is to say,
I imagine you seeing yourself
clearly and accepting love,
which you deserve.

What a mortifying thing, to have
a fraternal twin of your little bird
heart beating in the body of someone
else, to have that someone be so dear
a friend, to see yourself so clearly
and throw up your hands
in exasperation, to hold them and
also be holding yourself.
When we promise something to
each other, we are promising it
to ourselves, but in a way which says
we really mean it and we’ll get
our asses kicked if we give up.
To see the good in yourself and love it.
In return, to live and love honestly and fully.
We promise these things to each other,
forgetting whose is whose.

~ Juni Kieri

A part of us is never lost.

When I used to find you in the kitchen
Behind Enisu’s chulo
I’d always ask
So Aruko, what are you making today?
You’d always say 
A mess
But you don’t remember
You say you barely cooked when we were kids.

Come close, we’re older
No one will scold us for
Playing like we did
yesterday 
You wielded Appa’s walking stick
given to him by the woods that only gave us 
sisnu and aiselu berries.
You tried to get me, purposely missed and
knocked over the top shelf
gundruk ko achar and lapsi candy
not sure who should clean it up
We ran to our hiding spot
under the dinner table
Enisu made out of the workshop bench
before she moved with you to Myanmar.

You don’t remember.
You say the table’s always been like that
One half from a different tree entirely.

Today you won’t even let me cook for you
You shy away from the smallest things.
Please don’t tell me you’re hungry
tell me what you’d like to eat.

I promise I’ll take better care of myself
Now that there is one more mouth to feed
I know you’ve learned to cook as well
But I don’t mind the chores 
when I know you need comforting
So please let me bring the groceries.
I promise this time,
I’ll be the one who makes a mess in Enisu’s kitchen,
I’ll be the one who cleans.

~ Ekoro Tamang