Letter from the Editor
By John Hardberger
3 anthriums
Liana Meyer
Her English
By Jose Oseguera
Her English
…sounds magical in prayer.
—from My Mother’s “Broken” English by José Hernández Díaz
My mother’s English bathes in cold water, and turns it off
while it lathers: it places a Danish cookie tin under itself to save the leftovers.
My mother’s English gets dressed in the dark.
My mother’s English avoided body language out of fear
of being pulled into deep conversation and drowning.
Its maple lungs hyperventilate as if chased by a shark.
Her English wants to be real, but at diners,
it hides behind the apron of its mother tongue; its nose,
long and wooden like a broom, fails to brush the waiter’s irises back to center.
My mother’s English believes in miracles; it curses
when its lexical entries are flogged with forty giggles less one.
And though it doesn’t condone the use of witchcraft,
Her English spells every word too gargantuan
to pronounce. I pray my sole touches not a fissure
on the pavement, lest my mother’s English shatters completely.
My mother’s English doesn’t go out much,
unless a phone call from a Caucasian-sounding voice surprises it.
The englitch conjures the closest English in the room.
My mother’s English often furrowed its brow and
squinted its almond eyes whenever it got a letter from school or
the government; my mother didn’t need glasses, but her English did.
People say I have my father’s Neanderthal forehead and butt chin;
however, I know I have my mother’s English, genetic beaner Anglo-Saxon
simmered on low heat overnight with half an onion and just a tablespoon of salt.
Her English is easier to swallow
by those who take a mouthful if she peppers
it with the right expletives and colloquialisms.
My mother’s English was proud to claim every year it failed
to improve like a hood in a ghetto of failed fluency. Though
its nose ran bloody and missed a few teeth,
But even in its Ardipithecus stage, her 3 foot 11 English
walked upright and used its hands to change
the lightbulbs and unclog the drains;
My mother’s English curled its bangs and blushed its pine wood
to look like skin. It prayed for me inside and out,
for every bone in my body, before I’d even lived one day
Jose Oseguera
Jose Oseguera is an LA-based writer of poetry, short fiction and literary nonfiction. His writing has been featured or is forthcoming in Water Stone, Pinch and Sonora Review. He is the author of the poetry collections The Milk of Your Blood(Kelsay Books, 2021) and And This House Is Only a Nest (Homebound Publications, 2024).
Liana Meyer
Liana Meyer is an American painter based out of the Philippines whose abstract work explores color, movement, and emotion through intuitive, approachable forms. Her art reflects a belief that creativity should feel welcoming and accessible, a philosophy she expresses through her brand Mango Mornings. Liana’s pieces are known for their warmth and grounding energy, resonating with viewers who seek calm and connection. As her practice evolved, she expanded into therapeutic art facilitation, guiding individuals to use creativity as a tool for reflection and emotional wellbeing. Her work blends artistic expression with gentle healing, offering spaces where people can breathe and reconnect.
