/suː-mɪŋ-iː-sɪŋ/ | soo-ming-ee-sing
iloko | to appear/ to rise
⢀. ⣀⣤⣴⣶⣶⣦⣤⣀⡀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⢀⣴⣿⠿⠛⠉⠉⠉⠉⠛⠿⣿⣦⡀⠀
⢀⣿⡿⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⢿⣿⡀ ⢸⣿⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⣿⡇ ⠘⣿⣧⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣼⣿⠃ ⠀⠙⢿⣷⣤⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣤⣾⡿⠋⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠉⠛⠿⠿⣿⠿⠿⠿⠛⠉⠀⠀⠀
FALL
2026
|
emiko akiyama-tahara | they/them
@aki_taki-_
Title: Recipe for ancestors
2026
They hold their hands outstretched into vessel-cups
As water pools into their palms they sing the sweet call of what is to come
Tired and furrowed brows have been their starvation
They offer water to you
to sip
to sip
And as their chorus rings loud into the night
They tilt their heads inward and place their faces over a stone well
Their black hairs fall over their shoulders and stream from their scalps to the very earth beneath their feet
Their dreams reanimating the dead
Replicating again and again the same ceremony, the same service they have offered to you
And a mellow note hums
Invoke manna
Invoke peace
Invoke communion
Under a long trill they watch the circle close
eat itself again
and die
Combustion:
2026
I described to you through our email affair how my life right now feels like a sizzling firecracker.
Yes, much collides during crisis.
And it’s all chemistry.
Like a slow burning light thrown into a bucket of water.
Upon combustion the bucket spits up liquid, burning and leaving boils on everything tender it
touches.
The water is still steaming.