Popshot Magazine Issue 38

Whether you interpret the theme of this issue as the basic cause or origin of something, a genre of music, the underground part of a plant, the answer to a mathematical problem, or the source of our ethnic or cultural origins, roots wrap around and entangle us all in a tight and jumbled bundle it can feel impossible to wriggle apart from. Just as blood vessels mimic the shape of roots beneath soil, we feel rooted for different reasons, and those reasons are so much a part of ourselves, running through us, it can be hard to gain the perspective to examine them. Many of the poems and stories written here examine our heritage, or more specifically our parentage, and the thrumming tension of loving and leaving our families as…

When they extract the root, they will find bits and phrases, syllables and sentiments my teeth never let pass my lips. Each molar and incisor is a bar clamped shut against my tongue. Every inhibition stored safely in my gums. And despite the anesthesia, I swear I feel the crack. The moment these thoughts are freed of me. The tooth clinks like an instrument when it hits the metal tray. This one reads ve me. And the dentist stares at it. Like he can see it too, and is trying to decipher the meaning. It is a mere scratch at first. It was that time, remember? When we met at that bakery on Fifth and you were late. Once I saw you coming up the sidewalk, I didn’t mind. Your…

Leaving the chalk outline of a frozen girl behind I was pulled down Deep into the loam by the tree’s tongue, She licked me clean, Shock replaced with sediment shining on my skin. Back against the bedrock, Far from the necklace swinging like an executioner’s axe I became all roots, all flesh, all feeling– Plugged in to a network of branded bodies. That night the puddle of shrubs screamed for me, Did you hear it? It screamed like only a forest can– Silently and shatteringly Each leaf quivering at a different frequency As the twigs wrote themselves against the night’s sky, Sparklers with an invisible light. A snippet of my soul still swims in that soil, I no longer wait for her to surface. She smiles, circled by radicles, Beating…

Turn head-over-heels and tread the pavement’s under-side. Take a walk downtown. Follow the root map of tree-lined streets, where earthworms sing in the crowns. Come when you’re sick of the shameless bees, sucking every flower. When you can’t forget the scent of apples behind a wall. When you’re tired of trying not to break fragile things. Flower stems, promises, butterfly wings. There are no fences here; no forbidden fruit. Hyphae tangle freely, without causing hurt. They whisper their secrets only to the trees. At the allotments, carrots poke up in rows, like tiny traffic cones. You’ll get to know the mirror-selves of rowan, birch and maple; understand their different forms. The shallow beech is treacherous: one should never sleep beneath its arms. But deep-anchored oaks may splinter too, in a…

I should like to go back to my early twenties, When the lines were not quite so entrenched, I could have cool, liquid protein injected into my forehead, They warn it could blind me, but I’d give my consent. I should really give in to my beautician’s upselling, Have my eyelashes tinted and lifted, I could have my jowls tightened, my lip-hair dyed, And for my eyebrows, entrust a tattooist that’s gifted. I should part with my savings and go under the knife, Have the crookedness taken out of my snout. I could go whole hog and have a facelift too, Give me a tonne of lip filler for a persistent pout. I should do morning crunches and strengthening squats, Get all my lumps and bumps tucked like a tiny…

Part 3 – Afternoon The chippy smell comes from halfway down Cross Street. It is still raining and I imagine Mam is with me. I am showing her everything, impressing her with how I can stride through crowded streets, dodge puddles and yells, people looking at me oddly because of my hair or height or I-don’t-know-what. In my dream, I point to the chippy, see Mam’s approval. I just have chips, part of me aching. I have never missed meat, but fish is… something else. I have a moment, as I walk on, where I realise these streets are my habitat. And where Mam is – the house and cat and kitchen and apple tree – is hers. I pop into the Swedish shop with the colourful backpacks and text…