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Ivy Ayako Poem
My heart clogs
up my throat
when I
try speaking about
how it feels.
Too large to fit
through
the thin trachea
of my limited vocabulary.
Copyright © Ivy Ayako | Year Posted 2026
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Details |
Ivy Ayako Poem
A bright afternoon lunch, a darker shadow wraps around
your leg. Not clawing, just yawning. Yearning for a twitch
in its way.
You sit terribly still.
Your mother urges you to shoo it off, your father chews
absentmindedly at the way too bloodied meat, gazing through
your forehead. The clinks of the neighboring tables annoyingly
in sync. Your foot turns to face it.
The waiter gets your sister's order wrong, she curls up to a ball
as so does her stomach as she pipes down the vanilla milkshake,
an excuse to leave to the bathroom. To leave here.
The edge of your eyes catches the figure 8 being woven
along your cramping shins.
The heavy grimace of your brother, your mother fixing up
his collar, clearly not ironed. The setting bores you,
you look under. Beady eyes staring at you too. A plea
for what you should do.
The sinful act of feeding a noir stray cat.
With the steady grip of a football player, a knowing smirk
a bright eye glint, you hold it close,
the pitch-dark abomination–
and toss it onto the table.
An approving purr.
A feast for all.
Copyright © Ivy Ayako | Year Posted 2026
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Details |
Ivy Ayako Poem
To like a boy, one must follow the following,
have a stomach to squeeze at the sight of him,
have a heart twist twice more than clinically appropriate
at the thought of him,
a little rock to pose in the middle of your larynx
if you get a chance to talk to him.
To like a boy, one must be ready to feel,
a disquieting jump of the stomach,
an hour nigh dawn
a stiff-neck forenoon,
a faux belief, unnecessary loud sighs.
To like a boy, one must know,
the latent truth that it may never really be,
what they want it to.
Copyright © Ivy Ayako | Year Posted 2026
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Details |
Ivy Ayako Poem
Confused is she who believes she knows
herself. A splotch in the artist's worst work yet
calls herself a masterpiece. Not even the
artist notices her mistake.
The vibrant dark red blood of a swatted mosquito
creates the edges of her face, standing out
in the sea of white, green and a sky blue.
A simple coffee spill shades in her eyes,
a simple dirt spot on the canvas, her iris.
She is hung up beside a poor copy of
Bar at the Folies-Bergère. Not more than a
pair of wandering eyes grazed over her and the clammy
artist.
But that blink, the extra second spent analyzing that
crown of hair, meant to her,
that she was the centerpiece.
Copyright © Ivy Ayako | Year Posted 2026
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