Two Poems by Sarah Sophia Yanni

call Sarah

mom tells the lady in her Subaru radio to call me, but the lady doesn’t understand. i’m sorry, i didn’t

catch that. can you please repeat the name? mom says it again. clearer, louder, un-human speech. mouth

wet, wide open. i’m sorry, i didn’t catch that. can you please repeat the name? she has lived in the usa

since the nineties, spewing words in an accent incompatible with cyborgs. siri, alexa, google, the subaru

lady, all un-designed to handle mom’s mexican-japanese english inflection. i’m sorry, i didn’t catch that.

can you please repeat the name? she curses at the car in spanish. chinga tu madre! and turns the radio on,

blasting.

I used to believe in everything

the last time I crossed myself

I can’t remember

clink clink!

incense, swinging

a religious post-mortem

my baptism filled the church

and for what?

existence through canon

shimmering golden set pieces

the projection begins to blur

our father

whose father? mine? Oh

year five of

non-attendance, non-intention

my solemn disassociation

from a pseudo family

18 whole years?

perhaps this qualifies

as my formal confession

warm, Byzantine memento

a lost theological inheritance

Sarah Sophia Yanni is a half Egyptian / half Mexican writer in Los Angeles. She is an Editor at Sublevel Magazine and is currently pursuing an MFA from the CalArts School of Critical Studies. She is the author of the forthcoming chapbook ternura / tenderness (Bottlecap Press) and other poems and stories that can be found at www.sarahsophiayanni.com.


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