Poetry: Selections from Soleil Yakita

Respice Finem

The self-important notion of corporeal divinity proclaimed in the gleaming reverie of stained glass and high ceilings 

Led me to believe the body was a thing carved of snow-white soap, a cohesive form sculpted with thought, with care, with holy reverence, 

Malleable to the gentle impressions left by blessèd thumbs, imbued with an intention that granted superiority. 

But in moments of clarity, of guttural self-admittance, I confess—I confess with defeat, I confess with bright triumph— 

That I find this breathing shroud which I am tethered to by flesh cords to be no more than a fallible, mechanized marionette, 

Some haphazard configuration of blood, bone, and righteous rot: of gristle and sinew and marrow, dying from the inside out. 

I am destined only to wither like all flora and fauna, thoroughly devoid of faith and sin, of truth and philosophy 

To be consumed in totality by the loving mandibles of the gentle decomposers—will-less, remorseless, godless. 

 

The Event Horizon ​

The world pulled in around me all at once

My house became the epicenter, the eddy, the tombstone. 

A decorated ode to the dead space on the couch

Where loved ones are drawn to the door in tight, cooing groups as if on a pilgrimage 

And I, unable to fold further inward, to bear the pulse of the gravity churning behind my navel, 

Spill outward like a withering bouquet, 

Wilted limbs splayed limply in all directions 

Bowing and reaching and giving and consoling and taking nothing for myself until all is dried up. 

Grey matter

a brooding lethargy like victorian rot: 

all plague masks and posies, corpses and consumption 

 

words trail soot on the walls, thoughts stain with putrid grease; 

tongue tastes food as if spoonfed from the ashtray 

 

fine, gritty granules like gravel, sediment, and 

misguided sentiments, unspoken resentments 

 

swiftly accumulate like thick glacial refuse 

in the warm crannies flush against the optic nerve 

 

and down the curving corridors within each bone: 

pebbles crowd like teeth in the carnal catacomb 

 

Soleil Yakita is a recent transfer and undergraduate Creative Writing student at Stockton University, and she has just begun to familiarize herself with the local literary community. She works as a library assistant, English tutor, and (unofficial) printer repairwoman at Atlantic Cape Community College. Soleil is also a clarinetist in the Atlantic POPs Community Band, where she can happily immerse herself in wordless rhythm for a few hours each week. She is just beginning to send work out for publication.