Shannon Pulusan
Shannon Pulusan is a writer and illustrator based in Jersey City. She reviews poetry as an editorial assistant for Flock, teaches poetry for NJPAC’s City Verses, and draws round-faced characters with triangle noses and pepperoni cheeks under the name moonmemo. She is a proud Fil-Am creative who calls NJ, FL, and Namyangju, South Korea home. Her work has been published in Bridge Eight, Entropy, Talon Review, Underblong, and more. She is currently a poetry candidate at Rutgers Newark's MFA program.
PLUME
for Tia Eli, after Thomas Terceira’s “Metamorphosis #2”
Tia Eli looks past the walls, looks past me,
watches the room’s corner, listens for a bluebird’s cry
She waits to plume, to be a bird—
An uncaged dot in the clearest sky
able to go anywhere
One day, a priest will mark her in oil
& her daughters will carry her from her bed
toward an array of winged creatures
All the birds that flutter into gray blurs
vivid in full view—
What will become of you? her youngest would ask
Tia Eli’s stiffened right hand will soften to point
She’ll choose wildly:
Strong wings to lift her through the clouds Dark feathers the color of her youth, heathered with wisdom
A delicate long beak, sharp as golden scissors
Everything distances itself when you can’t stand
The doctors, visitors, good and bad news—
they have the power to walk away
But soon a breeze will bless the changes of Tia Eli’s body
She’ll become a special breed, the sweetest sum of her every prayer
She’ll stretch against the scent of Costa Rican coffee brewing at a tired hour
She’ll draw seams on the skins of ripe plantains
collect loose threads, weave without a tremor
She’ll sing—
watches the room’s corner, listens for a bluebird’s cry
She waits to plume, to be a bird—
An uncaged dot in the clearest sky
able to go anywhere
One day, a priest will mark her in oil
& her daughters will carry her from her bed
toward an array of winged creatures
All the birds that flutter into gray blurs
vivid in full view—
What will become of you? her youngest would ask
Tia Eli’s stiffened right hand will soften to point
She’ll choose wildly:
Strong wings to lift her through the clouds Dark feathers the color of her youth, heathered with wisdom
A delicate long beak, sharp as golden scissors
Everything distances itself when you can’t stand
The doctors, visitors, good and bad news—
they have the power to walk away
But soon a breeze will bless the changes of Tia Eli’s body
She’ll become a special breed, the sweetest sum of her every prayer
She’ll stretch against the scent of Costa Rican coffee brewing at a tired hour
She’ll draw seams on the skins of ripe plantains
collect loose threads, weave without a tremor
She’ll sing—
CLEMENTINE
I placed one in your pocket. Hold it on overcast moments. Dig into its rind,draw your initial, keep the peel whole intact. Remember this fruit is of sunshine.Its sinews sunrays, the unfurled casinga cloud conundrum. I saw a galloping horse, the clementine center an awakened eye. Once a catoutstretched, once an open hand with uneven fingers.Remember how the bright edges light& the sweet aroma that follows. Remember all the people who polka dot our lives, like the ahjummain Busan whose wrinkled hands in yours weighed with three ripe rounds. Come again.Unnie who balanced the fruit like stoneswishing for a reunion, no matter the country. Be well.Your mother brewing the day’s discarded peelswith cinnamon over the stove. Like a candle.To cool down the fruit, you tucked one in your swimsuit last summer,dove deep. The fruit burstingfrom your chest, buoyant. There were 5 piecesfor each of us. The first slice, she loves me.Second, third, fourth, fifth, I love you still. Stained fingernail, sour sometimes, this fruit to share. I placed one in your pocket.
WATER CYCLE
In the morning, the day’s seconds fallas torrential rain. You wake to the sound of rice spilling from our ancestors’ hands. Their incessant taps, a progression that fillsthe family home. Answer back—your hand a warm shape on the cool glass, intentions spelt with mirrored letters. Remember them now.Move like sunlight through the day. Work harduntil every puddle evaporates. Wait for a reply.
PALMETTE
Of the morning slow Of mise en placeOf the dustpan sweep Of plant upkeep
My hand quick across the marble islandA touch before dust can claim
The day seemingly sameartfully arranged
An avocado half centered seed secured Pothos clippings yellow surroundingAn onion slice green growth new middle Cornered root ends of scallions & garlicMud-stained bok choy leaves an arched fan The spicy core of a pepper dotted accentsA pinched ant & caught spider My hair? Your hair? fronds
Papery skins alive as you cut the bok choy base for its rosette
to dip in greaseto stamp the cloth
My hand quick across the marble islandA touch before dust can claim
The day seemingly sameartfully arranged
An avocado half centered seed secured Pothos clippings yellow surroundingAn onion slice green growth new middle Cornered root ends of scallions & garlicMud-stained bok choy leaves an arched fan The spicy core of a pepper dotted accentsA pinched ant & caught spider My hair? Your hair? fronds
Papery skins alive as you cut the bok choy base for its rosette
to dip in greaseto stamp the cloth
