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  • Home
  • Nostrovia! Press archive
    • Former N!P Home Page >
      • Bartenders
      • How do we distribute?
    • Poetry Contest >
      • 2020 Winners
    • Chapbooks >
      • Full Catalog >
        • 2018 Chapbooks
        • 2017 Chapbooks >
          • Loathe/Love/Lathe by Aeon Ginsberg
          • our own soft by Katie Clark
          • every time i park my car I feel like i'm doing something wrong by Joseph Parker Okay
        • 2016 Chapbooks >
          • I Was Talking About Love—You Are Talking About Geography by Bob Sykora
          • Make a Fist & Tongue the Knuckles by Emily O'Neill
          • I Can Remember the Meaning of Every Tarot Card But I Can’t Remember What I Texted You Last Night by Elle Nash
        • 2015 Chapbooks >
          • Moon Facts by Bob Schofield
          • Juliet II by Sarah Xerta
          • Bird Lizard Horse by August Smith
    • F/A/L/D >
      • Current Issue
      • Archives >
        • Issue #014
        • Issue #013
        • Issue #012
        • Issue #011
        • Issue #010
        • Issue #009
        • Issue #008
        • Issue #007
        • Issue #006
        • Issue #005
        • Issue #004
        • Issue #003
        • Issue #002
        • Issue #001
    • Traveling Bookstore
Nostrovia! Press
"​i’m like my father
i leave half-carcasses
of myself everywhere i go
call this sacrifice."

dena igusti

Picture
Dena Igusti is an Indonesian Muslim poet based in Queens, NYC. She is the co-founder of Short Line Review. She is a 2018 Urban Word NYC Youth Poet Laureate Ambassador and 2017 Federal Hall Fellow. Her work has been featured in BOAAT Press, The Shanghai Literary Review, and more. You can find her at denaigusti.wordpress.co
"sacrifice (reprise), or trajectory"   
i want to run
into an arms of sorts.
yours. a battlefield before
the war. a gun store.

anything that gives me
trigger and thrill and
reason to fall out
of my own

two strands of hair
lie on your pillowcase
i think this is me leaving
a part of me with you

it’s just cells and dead and
genetic so i don’t see how.
they’re probably
thrown away by now

i’m like my father
i leave half-carcasses
of myself everywhere i go
call this sacrifice.

maybe this is why i name
every skin contact a war.
every minute after
an obituary is written
for each cell

my subconscious
speaks with uncertainty
i think that says a lot about me
an afterthought of afterthought
remains of one for another

i think a lot about death
for someone so afraid of dying
i call all my not-loves a loss
and grieve for something of mine after

whether it’s two strands of hair or
what isn’t left of me after the gunfight

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nostrovia chapbooks