Grace Hsieh

glass stained wonderful




she waits on the outside
for them

they wait for none



raisin fingers
sulk in doubt

in clarity

bubbles on tiles



ivy choked soul

no blade big enough to
trim rooted weeds

she sunk deep into herself

refracted love
her love

drowning under salt water
holds herself down


the sky carries her

she could have lived
in a nutshell


became a marble
glass stained wonderful

pruning flowers

unchained beneath tides, she
rises up

no longer salt

I Do Mind, But I Don’t Say

Where can one find the depth of the city but in the skyline. An unfamiliar bunch of seeds that sprouted and shimmer at night. They capture sunlight in the day, when they are least important. How can a horizontal line reveal the time it takes to die? Under blankets hundreds of feet high, she sleeps close to the stars with an open window to breathe them in. If she is too caught up in the waves of dusk, she’ll fall. Maybe concrete does not hurt. Maybe she will fall into the stars. Alice made falling look easy. Every night is trains or cars, or her back against the pavement. Still, she sleeps fifteen floors up, lofted with worries and a restless, fighting heart. Her dreams unfold like lilies in duck ponds, as clear as the day dust hides in. It cannot collect where the body dies every night. Below the bunk is more comfortable where conversations can continue, filling the holes that keep her alive. The dark no longer threatens the hope inside. Crisp is that skyline she fears most wonderfully.

Grace Hsieh is a first-year student of biology at Boston University and comes from California. Other than enigmatic quotes and attempts at typography on her Tumblr blog, her work has never been published. When she is not dodging cars on Commonwealth Avenue, she is scavenging for quarters to do laundry or practicing hip-hop with her dance troupe. Currently, she is anticipating the coming winter and storing up fuzzy socks.