by Alice Asch ’22

This month at The Words, we’re celebrating the work of Krys Limin ‘22! Krys (she/they) is a Religious Studies Major and Classics Minor from Wrightstown, New Jersey, who has dabbled in the genres of fantasy, romance, horror, young adult, and freestyle poetry. When asked about her areas of interest in writing, she said she is fascinated by “reunions and returns, the horrors of being the horror, the disconnect and intergenerational trauma between immigrants and their American-raised children, and the experience of being a woman in a sexually repressed Christian household.” As for Krys’s inspirations, they are drawn to “the smallest aspects of people’s existence: what they use to hold their keys, the ways they are picky, their pet peeves, the food they eat and why.” 

After Macalester, Krys hopes to become a Pharmacy technician while saving up for graduate school, where they intend to study Library Science and ultimately “fulfill the young reader’s dream of becoming a librarian”with plenty of time for writing on the side, of course.

Enjoy these two poems from Kyrs: “rizal in economy” and “the lord’s stitches”!


rizal in economy

he had an old

leather briefcase, 

which he tucked 

into the overhead compartment

and a tired grin, 

which he offered

as he sat down. 


he looked as 

i always dreamt him;

as i always saw him

on the peso

not a year aged;

not a moment gained

since his final



where to? he asked

but i think he already


i think he just 

wanted to hear

what i’d call it.


the dream, i meant to say.

the land of milk and honey. 

instead, i stayed silent.

how to tell a father 

that his child 

is not good enough?


how to tell a martyr

that he died for 

an unloved land,

a country abandoned?


he nodded at my silence.

it was answer enough, maybe.

he said, it is not a crime to seek

greener pastures. 


he took my hand

and the ink bled

into my skin as

he wrote and spoke.

i studied with them too.

i learnt freedom from

them and resistance

and how to eat them

from the inside out. 


he got off the plane in 

japan. i looked at my hand,

his elegant script

(you can’t be american

forever, it said, 

come home when

you’re ready.)

and i rode the plane 

to salvation.


the lord’s stitches

shepherd jesus like a lamb

sits between my legs as i sleep,

paralyzed as if by bondage.

his fingers are slow, meticulous, steady,

a carpenter’s fingers, 

sewing me shut,

tucking in the seams.

the prick of the needle, 

the draw of the string, 

the tired sigh of Our Lord,

like a hymn, a lullaby, played on 

a sleepy organ.

he seals me up, a garden enclosed, 

ties up the string and bites the end to keep it neat. 

purity is not sorrow, he declares.  

i will one day dream of waking,

seizing a seam ripper

slicing the stitches with precise motion. 




telling him

you can’t have my body. 

you have already taken

everything else.

but for now i sleep, 

frozen in amber, 

stitched shut like the mouth

of a corpse, 

a secret, or a sin.