Yasmin Belkhyr writes. Her writing has been/will be in [PANK], Waxwing, Hobart, and on Verse Daily. Her work has also been showcased at MOMA P.S 1, the Lincoln Center, the Kennedy Center, and the U.S. Hall of Nations. Yasmin runs Winter Tangerine Review and works on being a better person. Send her letters of love, hate, and indifference at yasminbelkhyr.com.
Her tongue was swollen, a mouthful of hiccup
and river, pain a current neither of us knew.
In the end, the blade was no blade at all—
just a slated stone that jut from the humming
flesh of the grassy bank. In the end, she sucked
ice, shucked the river out of its bed. In the end,
Eve’s throat lost purpose. That very first night,
she sliced her thumb, then yanked out her voice.
That very first night, we learned the value of dirt—
burnt and pitted, brown as Eve’s skin.