person Christie Suyanto, one poem

Christie Suyanto is an avid writer, linguistics buff and fan of vintage fashion. Her works have appeared in Crashtest Magazine and Popshot, among other publications.




In our family
most children are post-requisites.
Pay attention, my mother always said,
you don’t marry a guy for love.
Or for much else, for that matter.
For beautiful pink baby boys
with brand name booties.
Or strangers who’d smile at you
during family reunions, maybe.
But not for love.


I used to dream about water.
How it would one day swallow me,
how I’d become a myth. One of those
pale paper girls betrothed
to a god from the sea.
So I learned how to swim.
Got a tan. Started wearing reflective clothing.
Learned how to grow gills,
just in case. And when that
didn’t seem to be enough,
I left before he knew my name.


That’s when I started to change.
After six years away
from the old city
with small town sensibilities.
After too much salt.
Too many bodies of water
with foreign names
to avoid. Too many tears.
Too many dreams.
One day I inhaled
and there was nothing but air.
Not quite someone new.
Still the old bark
of my body, thrown out and upwards
by the sea. The old rot.
The old growth.
But with less fear of water
and clearer vision.


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