Natasha Kane

Natasha Kane is a Thai-American writer, editor, and educator. Her work draws inspiration from her family’s roots, the fruits she eats, and the physicality of the human condition. After graduating with her Master of Arts in English from the University of North Florida, she’s been teaching college-level writing courses as an adjunct professor. She is the current editor-in-chief of The Talon Review and an editor for Trio House Press. Her own work has been presented at the JaxbyJax Literary Arts Festival. When she’s not editing or writing, she’s likely grading papers in artisanal coffee shops. You might also find her behind the bar, mixing cocktails beneath a disco ball.

Ebbing

Water ebbs and laps at my feet;the flooded storm drain reflects blush clouds.“It’s called a French drain, a lot of the oldhouses in Jax have them.”Grandmother walked through tsunamisback home, back in Thailand.Before grandfather relocated <restrained>her to America.
Sunlight glints off rusted rotorblades, powerless to wind’s turbulence.“The base has a ton of static displays; this onemight have seen action back in ‘Nam.”Grandmother thought the scentof Agent Orange was natural.Late at night, I hear her lungs <legacy>constrained in red.
Her veined hands peel lychee fromour local Asian grocery store.“Your grandmother loves youthat’s why she prepares you fruit.”Grandmother once picked fruit fromher grandmother’s Jade Eden.Now, we splurge on imported crops <connections>and she quietly nourishes me.


Lady of the Rib

Blame herFor barrenness punished by a closed fist wrenching blood payment.
For petals ripped from the rosehusbands demand an extra stitch.
Did her teeth rip the flesh of a fig?Did her lips feel the fuzz of a peach?
Don’t mention tricks of scaly creaturesslithering in the dark.
An unwelcomed tonguedemanding the seeds ofa pomegranate.


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