ELDERFLOWER & HEATHER
ISABELLE JIA
how to float without: the salt on her tongue
crystalline green, wiped cupid’s bow.
release of skin grappling for fear. the morning air
like putting on a new dress. delicacy stuck between
teeth that rammed hard on mouths. jaw gears reset in place
the bedside drawer full of jack. and shots. and boy.
crystalline green, wiped cupid’s bow.
release of skin grappling for fear. the morning air
like putting on a new dress. delicacy stuck between
teeth that rammed hard on mouths. jaw gears reset in place
the bedside drawer full of jack. and shots. and boy.
TEASE
ISABELLE JIA
mobiles turn nursery rhymes.
didn’t tell me the door was locked
out and fireflies danced purple
upon your brow. a babe spills juice
in the ceramic cereal. father
was cremated over there, a little to
the left. and you and me, fucked to the right.
orange paint smells like bed sheets.
who wouldn’t want to be loved by you?
didn’t tell me the door was locked
out and fireflies danced purple
upon your brow. a babe spills juice
in the ceramic cereal. father
was cremated over there, a little to
the left. and you and me, fucked to the right.
orange paint smells like bed sheets.
who wouldn’t want to be loved by you?
ISABELLE JIA is a sixteen-year-old poet whose work has appeared in The Glass Kite Anthology, Seasons Magazine, and Phosphene Literary Journal. Jia has attended the Iowa Young Writer’s Studio and the California State Summer School of the Arts; she is also a California Arts Scholar, the finalist for the Walt Whitman Poetry Contest, and a recipient of numerous awards from Scholastic Art & Writing Awards. She currently resides in San Francisco Bay Area, CA.
