Talin Tahajian


My grandmother still sends me fifty-dollar bills
through the post. Countless times, I have listened
as she floats upward, then sinks back down. Fog 

that rolls in thick, crusty loafs. The front porch
still smells like a ghost, like newspaper ink
tinting countertops purple. My articles are good 

for wrapping fish, or lighting a fire. Tomorrow,
I will find a blank letter caught in a barbed wire
fence. There will be no loose change, no 

newspaper clippings that we will try to read
before giving up, using them to wrap fish.
When I grab it, all of the ink that isn’t there
                                              will stain my palms.

Talin Tahajian

Talin Tahajian grew up near Boston. Her poetry has recently appeared in Salt Hill, Indiana Review, Kenyon Review Online, Best New Poets 2014, Columbia Poetry Review, DIAGRAM, and Washington Square Review. She's the author of half a split chapbook, Start with Dead Things (Midnight City Books, 2015), and serves as a poetry editor for The Adroit Journal. She is currently an undergraduate student at the University of Cambridge, where she studies English literature and attempts to assimilate.