House Rules

The submission window opens—Diaspora Issue.
Mango framed like a moon, perfect bruise marbling the center.

Two tabs glow; one for guidelines, one for their subtext.
I hold the cursor over Withdraw the way I hover at crosswalks.

The form asks demographics, then stars the line when I skip it.
Sir, the special? I nod at the polite waiter. The special.

Last month, a judge praised the salt air braided with heritage.
I’d written a bus route and a late fee; the salt was road, not sea.

In workshop, a suggestion: What about a grandmother’s recipe?
My grandmother kept coupons in an elastic cinched to her wrist.

An editor DM’d: We’re seeking work that speaks to migration.
I drafted three replies, then erased each sentence’s passport.

At readings, they lean in when the syllables change temperature.
The mic—black bulb, no incense, just breath and lint.

If it doesn’t wave a flag, they ask it to hum the anthem.
If it hums, they clap; if it doesn’t, they say subtle, but slight.

I speak about a bent nail holding a mount against February’s teeth.
Though crooked, it holds its post, but no one wants to quote ordinary metal.

These errands decline to translate themselves.
They open their palms, show receipts printed on used napkin squares.

Yet their eyes snap to a mango you could practically peel.
The notes read lush. They read necessary. Two ways to say ours now.

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Leonardo Chung is a Korean American writer attending Yale University. He recently won First Place in Poetry in the Los Angeles Review and First Place for Nonfiction in the 93rd Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition. His work appears in the Los Angeles Review, Epiphany, Chestnut Review, Chautauqua and others. He draws inspiration from distinguished poets such as Langston Hughes, Naomi Shihab Nye, and Louise Glück.