SHATTERED PETALS
Poetry
ISSUE ONE: (1) Equilibrium, (2) 'tis autumn, (3) Waiting at the Flag, (4) A Fault of The Muses, (5) Vicious Coils, (6) coriander, (7) Rome, (8) Eternal Knight, (9) the top of central park is yours., (10) Fool's Gold, (11) Memories from the Bus Stop, (12) Paper Houses, (13) Pretend Puppeteer, (14) Memory Lapse, (15) what the comb said to the black girl, (16) Prometheus
ISSUE TWO: (1) The Black Swan, (2) Pair of Sonnets for the Blind, (3) To My Family in Pyungyang (조선), (4) Prorogued, (5) The Shoulder, (6) Fates Spin, (7) SMPTE Bars, (8) You were right., (9) ___'s lament, (10) the movies that we watch., (11) Nursery Rhymes from Eidolon, (12) watching, wishing, waiting, (13) damage control
ISSUE THREE: (1) Timeless Hearts, (2) The religious atheist, (3) Telepathy, (4) Submerged, (5) Academia, (6) Muse, (7) Merely O's, (8) Harmoniously, (9) cookies, anyone? (10) Four Cadenzas, (11) Bird without wings, (12) are you ok? (13) Choking on Mirrors, (14) Longest Wharf
ISSUE FOUR: Coming soon!
Equilibrium
BY ANONYMOUS
At the top of the tree were curly tufts that I was too short to reach.
He lifted me to sit on the sturdy branches to play with them for the time being. Long
ago he chopped off the legendary locks that I have never seen.
I tie my twists into a ponytail
by twisting them onto themselves,
he says he gave those to me. Another of his tall tales
overgrown to keep him company,
enclosing me in a forested maze.
In disbelief,
I sought the truth: how does his hair grow from my roots?
I gave him 15 minutes to shave his already shiny head.
Shoulder to shoulder, I creep behind him
to retrieve my silk bonnet from a bathroom bin.
The twists will be softened by a souffle, I try to imagine him doing the same. I
recall the long haired strongman story that stopped as a stump,
harder to believe, and incomplete because I fell asleep entranced by his verbosity.
You cheated on your chemistry exam,
no wonder you illustrate this principle’s answer key.
Barren branches and wilted willows line the forest, and though the raconteur is weary near
the end of the maze flowers bloom. I planted them how you taught me, using my own seeds.
Let's play one more round of Scrabble
and I’ll show you, I’ll twist you into a trap with the vines of my triple word score.
My flowers germinate in open space, you wonder how you gave it to me. I visualize your reaction
to my poison ivy. Your skin itches in discomfort, it reddens both of our eyes. At eye level, alas,
your tall tales look so short; I look beyond that tree of life.
'tis autumn
BY CHASE AARON AGUDO
“my friend, you must not let this feeling last;
the world is never kind to those who weep,”
the wind would tell me as it tumbles past,
playing its flutes more softly as I sleep.
the rain tries, time and time and time again,
to remind me of the promise of sun,
showering droplets of hope before then,
kisses to cradle the many days to come.
but as leaves hum wistfully in my ear,
sweet autumn rests her head among the trees;
tonight, she strums the chords I seldom hear
and dances in patterns I have yet to see;
she whispers as I walk with falt’ring feet,
“carry on, the world hears your heartbeat."
Waiting at the Flag
BY ZOE COBB
We the People who stare at the flag
Who gaze at the star-spangled banner
We the people are no longer…
We the people are no longer
Justice is the end of government,
Justice is the end of us all
The end days of a time
The dawn of an era
We die
We suffocate
Wondering if patriotism was ever meant for us
This resilient beam of consistency
That gleams across every page
A flagrant ink splattered all across our country
Everywhere in our founding.
Patriotism.
Still, I wait by the Flag.
We the People of the United States
In order to form a more perfect union,
The goals of our constitution rotted
Stained with blood
Sitting here on the land we forged
What a union this is
Our country ‘tis of thee
The land of the free
From sea to sea
From the sea I see
The utter despondency.
Manifesting its destiny
The American Nightmare.
We wait at the flag
For something, anything.
As I stare at the thing I am meant to believe in,
As I stare at the flag and wait to see,
I wonder if the flag will ever truly be willing to see me.
A Fault of the Muses
BY LYRIA HUNTE
My grace is meant for those beloved;
is made of red and white and turpentine.
His kisses appear in hands stained, strained and calloused,
But his voice belongs to others as much as it does mine.
Things like this are shared but are not meant to fade,
And yet what I say fails to portray what I feel.
When I am in love with not subject but serenade,
Despite the letters, does that make me unreal?
When I stare at not yours, but cupid's bow,
Do I betray the creation I carefully cultivated?
It would seem wrong to make you and my art foe,
Yet in my search for muses I leave you deserted.
precious heart, in my hands, so delicate.
How cruel am I? Not to cherish
Vicious Coils
BY ANONYMOUS
Stolen glances.
Bounced curls.
Lingered smiles.
I painfully recall them all too well.
Deceiving me into thinking we had something.
Implying it when telling me you’ve been thinking about her all summer, “but not this week though.”
And then it all stopped.
As if I were a one-week thing.
I had to get over it all like you were nothing
Like you meant nothing to me
Like you were not an experience
Like you were not a moment
Like you were not my temporary reason to not give up.
And now I have to trudge through life knowing that if I would have been more, for you, it would have never needed to end.
Now I’ll just have to revisit the pages of our books that would have been, should have been, could have been written
coriander
BY ANONYMOUS
How can
You hate the sun
And love the light
At the same time
And how can your chest
Tighten with chains rattling against your ribs
Thrown into
A yellow sky
Of heat; then a tornado
That seizes your stomach
And pulls the tide in your blood like the moon and the sea
Where you drown
While it gives you breath
But you would give
Anything
To reach inside your cage
And carve out your own
And claw and scrape at the dark crevices
Where the light may hide
And you would cling
Gasping for air
Hanging to a vine above an abyss
Grasping– pressing– your thorns
Salt slipping down your palms
So you can rid yourself of yourself for yourself
And how can you not see
That the sun without light or
The veins pulsing, distraught in unseen darkness
Cannot exist
So would you give
Anything
And wrangle with your shadow
So it can die
And you can live
With the half hitch you are repelled by
As long as you do
Not repel others
To avoid one sickening convulsion
And be thrown
To the next
And how can that be
Both what boils
And the turmeric root
That entangles and keeps you close
Closer than ever before, to the warmth that fills the fragile hide
Your limbs twisting with a newfound skin
and foliage bouncing at your shoulders
As you
Try snipping the stem
That feeds your poison to your leaves
And wilting, you will be remembered
As well.
Photo credits: Ella Taft
Rome
BY CAROLINE POWERS
I didn't know that I loved God until the Basilica.
I loved lonely men for making a lonely God, and for building Him a house to sleep in.
I loved the modernity and the sterility of it all—it really was the house of God,
Not just something my mom says to make me take off my hat.
I loved the vastness of it, and the suffocating lack.
The emptiness,
The echo, and the perfect symmetry of each arch and dome.
GOD IS MATH
↳ GOD IS ART
↳ MATH IS ART
—shot through my synapses in a micro-instant. By the law of transitivity, I saw math truly,
as a lateral path radiating from my feet like
sphagnum
like a flower.
Math that runs like wiring on a circuit board
behind and beneath the world, appearing as wires that breach the surface
—the vessels supporting all life.
I had this epiphany with my hat in my hands, looking through a hole in the ceiling of
Saint Peter's, and I forgot God entirely.
To simplify: I didn't know that I loved math.
Eternal Knight
BY ANA GOYLE
I sit back into the soft, comforting embrace of the pickle green
Armchair.
Dada holds me and holds me –
My heart against his chest,
Whispering softly.
His honey voice soothes me from the darkness.
Covers me with an untouchable blanket.
In a boat on the sea together.
The smell of salt and crashing waves
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
We rock.
Suddenly, he reaches over and pulls you out
I stare, mesmerized at your black and white squares
At your wooden carved surface, gleaming in the dark
Like a spotlight on a star on the stage
Your knights, kings, bishops, and queens
Enthralled me, as Dada carefully taught me
The Art of the World –
Your black and white squares face me
As I sit pondering my next move in the very same pickle green armchair,
Thousands of times I have now played against him.
But I have never won
Well-worn pathways branch like trees
But each one will lead to the same place,
The place I always dread.
I reluctantly move your knight to A2 and wait, quivering slightly
Like the hesitation before the hand draws the arrow
Knowing what is to come.
You know knights are always the most useful at the center of the board rings through my head.
Dada moves his knight and suddenly it is check mate.
I surrender and he comes to hug me.
The minty smell of his cologne. His neatly pressed shirt. His perked ears.
He is shielding me from the darkness once again.
I am back in Dada’s house.
But this time, not to hug him on the rocking sea.
This time, to clear out his stuff.
I fall into teardrops.
Crumpled like candy wrappers.
I am alone on the floor
Alone to face the crashing darkness.
When suddenly, I see you
Shoved in the corner.
Dust covered and paint peeling on the edges.
The bright shine
Now gone.
I clutch you on the journey back.
You remain hidden in a secret spot in my room.
Too painful to think about
A bruise
Forever sore
And red.
Krishan comes over for dinner.
He is five years old and bright-eyed
He never met Dada.
And after we eat dinner and stuff our bellies,
I decide to bring you out of my room.
We sit in the same pickle green armchair
And I sit you down on the table.
He stares at your black and white squares
So intently. Keen.
And carefully I teach him
The Art of the Board.
the top of central park is yours.
BY CHASE AARON AGUDO
i say that with regret, of course;
you have the reservoir
and all the tennis courts
and the playground where we had our first kiss.
when i walk across the transverse
i’ll look at the faces
of people passing by—
hiding my head, should you be one of them.
but i’ll never say it, of course;
I’ll keep this tiny lake
and these few baseball fields
and that terrace where I will walk alone.
who knows?
maybe one day
courage will spur my feet
into walking that reservoir
'til the top of central park becomes mine.
Fool's Gold
BY ANONYMOUS
My own eyes cannot reach
Where I fumble
with the clasp.
And so, watching my frosted
Reflection in the vanity I
Battle to clip the fragile chain.
The metal, fool’s gold,
I’ve been told,
Is cold on my skin, rubbing red
Against my neck until it hurts.
Constantly slipping from my nails
Where the clasp digs underneath.
Closing my eyes, it clips,
Too tight, too tight. As if a
Chain to keep a wild jaguar
at bay.
Rolling the delicate pendant
Between my finger and my thumb.
Wearing the prize jewels of great queens,
I release the pendant
and cast a witch’s spell.
Someone gave this to me. Perhaps a friend,
Probably my mother. She may have gotten it
From her mother too.
The rusting chain rests heavy over my skin.
And the fog lifts from the glass and I brush away
my hair. And I cannot decide
if this chain
Brands me docile or strong.
Memories from the Bus Stop
BY ANA GOYLE
my fingers cling to your touch.
on the corner of hudson and north moore
tattered old newspapers line each block
the walk is eternal, a never ending symphony of sirens, coughs. pure polyphony
on the corner of hudson and north moore
we wait for the Bus
the walk is eternal, a never ending symphony of sirens, coughs. pure polyphony
the cold gnawing and tugging at every limb. a bloody fight
we wait for the Bus
to take us away. far away. another world hidden within.
the cold gnawing and tugging at every limb. a bloody fight.
familiar screeches and cries fill the air—the Bus is here
to take us away. far away. another world hidden within.
wearing the armor of tears and sorrow, i board and there is no turning back. only the endless road ahead…
familiar screeches and cries fill the air—the Bus is gone
and i am left with only shadows. the echoes of my own heartbeat to face the crashing darkness.
my fingers recoil from your touch.
Paper Houses
BY BELLA HOLT
“The grass is greener here,” is
What my dad used to say when we walked out
Of the airport. “Just smell that fresh air.”
He was right, too. The grass was
Always greener on the drive to 201 Beach Road than
It ever felt on the drive to Boston.
Always warm, too, even in the
dead of winter. Each breath I took was more precious
Than anything could be in New England.
“There you are,” the wind whispered on the
windy drive, “we were just waiting for you to come home.”
Each year of nomadic life came and went, of getting up and
Dusting off before any comfort could settle,
But this place stayed. The same walk to Beach Park. The same
television I’ve been watching since diapers. The same pink-
and-green quilts on the bed.
I held my baby cousin for the first time there;
Deep in his bug-brown eyes was a family– just close enough to brush
My fingertips along its tender glow. A stone bridge to the
Connection I never had.
I am tied to my post, so perhaps that is why
My mind is back home in Melbourne.
I don’t think I will ever make this place
Feel like more than a box to check off the list
Before moving on to the next task.
The grass is greener here.
Pretend Puppeteer
BY F. EL IDRISSI
Sly fox, they say
—but I know what you did.
Although my Strings are forever denatured,
Your calloused fingers remain as a shadow.
A place I never have to revisit,
but you just haven't wounded me enough
Yes, your claws have gutted out all
those imaginary butterflies
I used to feel with you around.
Yes, the sands are pouring out,
but at least I've got people and myself
to stitch me up.
Forever scarred I will be,
Forever lonely you'll go on...
Your other puppets;
Perhaps they have already fallen out of your grasp-
No maybes— I know so.
The facade you've created is no more...
A broken smile,
Pretend Puppeteer.
Memory Lapse
BY ANONYMOUS
My water broke with blood
And I, who typically grows
Nauseous at the sight of a wound,
Looked, watched, stared,
At the gaping gash beneath me.
I couldn’t stop the blood.
Mesmerized, yet clinically calm
As the insides of my organs scraped
Clean and bled from me.
I was baptised in this blood,
deemed sin by some.
I didn’t bleed as a slash or a tear would.
My back longed to cave in before
Realizing it was stone.
My insides knotted themselves and pulled tighter
Until my bones themselves moved
To let more blood out.
I heard I can cause
Memory Lapse
By bleeding this much.
But we all do anyway.
Because maybe,
Maybe we can account in blood what
We hold in tears.
what the comb said to the black girl
BY ZOE COBB
We got a tangled history the two of us
My child
It’s all in knots
When someone uses me it’s to
fix
neaten
Come baby, sit on the floor
Let me clean you up before you go out.
Let me knead through the kinks I
have tried to protect you
Pull your hair back
Into a precise
Powderpuff
That’s acceptable
When they look at you
But when the hair tie
breaks
it all unravels
And you come back to me
Prometheus
BY CAROLINE POWERS
May your hands be the mold,
Your stomach, the kiln.
'The Forethinker',
In equal parts Uranus and Gaea
Immortal deceiver,
A fable older than enterprise.
Vivisected by talons
Disgorging bile and viscera
Ichor and eleos.
How could you have known
What it means to suffer grief,
Or what it is to be mauled?
An eternity of godhood
Rears a soft, ambrosia mind.
In primitive stone torment,
Taunted by elysian rays
Look over the Aegean sea
To Athena and Hephaestus.
Barbarism
Down the jagged face,
Behold your creations
Who cower from the day
Their anthemic hymn,
Slave to their brains
In the damp and the dark,
Moving in place
Prometheus, son of lapetus,
Doesn't see the bronze and bright-eyed
Children of his design
Illuminate the night.
Firing their ability to wonder
-and to wander,
Their tendency to hope.
Last stanza references I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream
(1967) by Harlan Ellison
The Black Swan
BY SARAH DUNCAN
Some are yet to find femininity in my rage for my visage only invokes fear.
I tidy my wild hair, conceal the crazy in my eyes
from the long nights spent molding myself with their harsh words
that on the surface must not break me—though my soul may want to cry.
I lace anti-venom into my speech, so I softened my shouts, and I refrain from opening any doors in their brains
or any boxes I can’t close,
as not to overflow the ire I’ve spent years trying to control.
Everything I do is a hyperbole.
But what I softened myself into is the being they no longer see,
because if we all look the same I must take up space
and give myself a memorable name
by auditioning for the white swan.
For her, Ethereality will not be a compliment
to equate her worth to oversexuality,
for there’s delicacy within in her bones;
perfection in her self control.
She softly speaks of all things sweet—refraining from impulsivity.
The Black Swan
hides behind this venomous lie.
She spreads her wings within the confines of my mind.
How many times must I straighten my hair in suppression of her aggression?
How long before I stop feeding the demon growing inside me?
In the white swan they see a feminine rage.
Though into the void she screams and cries to those who refuse to hear,
she has a catharsis in becoming the monster that they tried to cage,
she’s still so beautiful though she’s her greatest fear.
This is what makes her a girl.
I gave myself unconditional permission to feel
until I help my inner child to heal.
They’ll never let me be just a girl.
Pair of Sonnets for the Blind
BY ELLA TAFT
Alas, when violently your sun has set,
Such leaves have fallen, arid in your frown,
The yoke has grown too heavy through your sweat,
And rain has cruelly stormed upon your crown;
Still, I’ve remained here yet, is this not true?
I’ve carved my scars and battled your own beast,
As None halt’d my eternal love for you
I paint sweet marzipan on rage released;
And yet, when hurricanes blow my weak smile,
Your love has never once lifted a brow.
Await— this scale has tipped such unfair trial!
Where were you when my spring gave barren bough?
You had gone, as eternal one may be;
Soon tiring Time shall take me to rest free.
To love you is to slaughter and to maim
And kill my heart and fill it with cold brine;
My obsession: yet the tears long to shine,
But love, think not of my flaws and my shame,
True, burns cannot be hidden in the flame:
No, still, all my mind bleeds for is benign
Grace, or wine and sleep, or memory of mine
To fever dream and catch a star to blame.
But a candle cannot clear airs of doubt,
Just as loving you pains me, there I stood;
As I burn myself, a candle won't shout,
The mind’s so dark, I do not know what should;
And yet, I’ll let such a fire burn me out,
Knowing I lit the world while I still could.
To My Family in Pyungyang (조선)
BY CAROLINE POWERS
Sometimes very late at night I catch myself in
thoughts that ordinarily I would never indulge in
Like how adrift I feel in this Godless country
Catch myself calling a place I will never go “back home.”
I think of you all the time.
—
It’s easy to feel cut loose as an American.
Everything is easy, as an American
Born from this broken nation on this stolen earth,
I’m always going to be an American,
it’s by virtue of being the first born here
it’s all I’ve ever had to know
This evil country is full of us all; Born broken.
This poem is about me, it’ll always be about me.
—
I want to know how they are, I want to see them
I look nothing like them, I’m nothing like them. I am drifting
Their faces swallowed up in mine
I wonder if anyone else feels this untethered-ness
I wonder if they are angry with me, floating away.
I think of them all the time,
Please don’t stay angry, when I see you again
I think of you all the time.
—
Cousin. Auntie
Do you feel it? I’m thinking of you
I’m sorry for it all:
The war machine, the way coins scatter on a stone path
The luck of the draw.
Do you feel my six thousand mile heart beating?
Does it beat in a language you know?
Cousin, auntie, we’re still here
It’s beating only for you,
I think of you all the time.
Prorogued
BY ANONYMOUS
The heat sears into my
Skin, glasses pinched as a shield.
Every limb begging for respite and
Every street straining strength and
Every bag weighing more than the
Last moment.
The station filled with many like me
And unlike me.
No pause to capture the tracks
No hints to confirm direction
But shoulders, bags, backs of heads-
Yelling, whistling, hustling-
And I smile, drowning in the crowd.
Blue bandanas and green wristwatches
Spills tears of sadness or joy.
Or regret, or guilt, a bitter future.
But mine, never as weak as my mom’s.
Vulnerable, as she left
Her family. My family. All those years
ago for work in
another country.
Waiting for the train and shaking under her bags.
Bruised by weight.
The heat sears into my
mouth, drying my tongue and tears.
Coughing the remorse away.
My necklace choking me all the more.
The heat sears into my eyes.
The train never comes but
it doesn’t feel like waiting
anymore.
The Shoulder
BY ANONYMOUS
A shoulder to cry on is all you need.
After the earth quakes quietly crumbling all you believe.
After the ocean overflows, overwhelmingly your peace
After the wind whales uncontrollably leaving you with a bruising backlash.
After the sun scorches mercilessly leaving you with a ripping redness.
A shoulder that will embrace you just as hard as you embrace them.
A shoulder that makes you feel like you are not a burden by making it all wet.
A shoulder that will unquestionably reassure you in the middle of the night when you show up uninvited, unannounced.
A shoulder that whatever happens, will still be the shoulder we all, as humans, crave.
All sensible until…
That shoulder would worry themselves for your own sake. Worry that one day those heavy tears make your heart heavy and then become too heavy to carry. Eventually, that weight would become too heavy for the shoulder too. And then — poof. It’s gone. It leaves to go find a shoulder of its own to carry the now transferred burden blaming you for the damage.
Fates Spin
BY SARAH DUNCAN
Step back and look at all the time I waste
Fixated on my final breath as I
Forget to breathe, while living my life based
On how I’m meant to live before I die.
Hope to ascend after earth clips my wings
To sanctuary, if my soul’s reformed;
Refuge from fire with no hymns to sing,
If I’m not in the favor of the Lord.
So in this promise I’m still yet to find
An earthly sanctuary from my brain.
Perfectionist with an imperfect mind,
Why do I think of things that cause me pain?
This puzzling game of life, I may not win.
I’ll let the fates spin what they wish to spin.
SMPTE Bars
BY ANONYMOUS
Away we came from away
and I never felt so shamefully belonging.
I want to leave but still I stay
But I know it’s trying to kill me,
or maybe it’s paranoia of suffocation that
kills me instead
but it’s what I know and it’s
all I know and everything
I know and see
is filled with this dream
of the world but could I ever
go?
Or maybe it’s better I stay
here, but maybe it’s easier
And I like it here- or, I
like myself here- and
I never felt so shamefully belonging
in my English-speaking country when
all I want is to be different
in a mass of difference
and all I need is to be accepted
in a crowd of safety
where I am too safe.
You were right.
BY ANONYMOUS
The human mind is truly the scariest thing of all.
It tricks you into thinking something is there when there’s not
You hear things down the hall
Perhaps footsteps, a knock
Everyone thinks you’re crazy
Maybe you are
Your mind’s hazy
Clinging on to past scars
You’re convinced of ill intentions
A kill, stab, or maim
At even the slightest mention
Of your name.
‘I will heal’ you think
as you try to ignore
sounds intensifying while you’re on the brink
the opening of your door—
Footsteps, to reap
It’s notrealnotrealnotreal
Relief
A tear
A chilling pause as you
Sleep
Forever.
___'s lament
BY CHASE AARON AGUDO
“do you
remember the
couple who asked us
to take a photo of them at
the park?”
he says,
“the whole time I
was taking the picture,
I thought ‘damn, I wish I had that,’
you know?
it’s like—
why couldn’t that
be me? it’s all i ask;
but nothing ever works. nothing.
jesus.”
the movies that we watch.
BY ANONYMOUS
the movies that we watch.
I see us in the movies that we watch; when they’re holding each other close, searching ambitiously for more love to consume in each other's eyes while dancing in a room full of souls that are useless to the setting except for how flawlessly they ignore them.
I see us in the movies that we watch; when they break a tension no one knew was there until it abruptly dissolves by a tease.
I see us in the movies that we watch; when the protagonists' heart flutters with butterflies when the words you speak back to me fulfill my hopeless romantic heart by telling it what it’s been craving to hear those words out of my mind.
I see us in the movies that we watch, except that’s it’s not us and never will be.
Nursery Rhymes from Eidolon
BY ANONYMOUS
I wish the lighthouse were the sun
And all the land, the sea.
I wish all sailboats seas have spun
Came back to carry me.
I wish the wind would be my shawl,
Not bite my neck and skin,
I wish my feet would slip and fall,
A silence in the din.
The raging rocks would rip my flesh,
The stinging salt would slice,
The sinews shucked, the blood all fresh,
The sea my only vice.
No, my limbs won’t tear today,
The rocks won’t see the sound
Of my shrill voice, lost on the way,
My mind was never found.
watching, wishing, waiting
BY CHASE AARON AGUDO
sitting on the edge of that balcony,
he can only imagine how much fun
those people seem to be having down there.
the room behind him, where the others are,
it can’t quite satisfy his whims—
he had never grasped how such
raw, unfettered laughter could have
come from alcohol and music
him? he needs better company
so he’s given a choice:
retreat inside and live
to be quiet, tempered;
or stay watching
wishing, or worse—
waiting?
damage control
BY SARAH DUNCAN
laying in the shattered shards— resemblant of the mirror glass
my wretched glances crack—
of adolescent fragility,
i cannot identify the damage
you urge me to control,
or discern whose reflection
deceits me while
trapped in a mirror
maze, tricky shapeshifters
taunting me at every corner;
void of all
proclivity for
soaking up sunlight,
they refract it, cast the burden
out, put the onus upon me to
catch it.
squeezing into crevices
where the light won’t reach
me, i look for shade to cast
a shadow
and hide whilst their
watchful eyes
burn into me—
attacking from every side—
so as to confuse them
with an illusion:
it lets them believe they’ve
emblazoned my ideal amelioration—
an amalgamation of my own conflations—
a shadow as elusive as the escape,
for it distracts me from the glass shards
cutting into my sides;
i confuse the blood oozing out
for me being small enough to hide.
Timeless Hearts
BY MISHKA SURI
Timeless Hearts
BY MISHKA SURI
They say love blooms on even ground,
Where years align and steps are sound.
But hearts don't count the age we bear;
They beat for souls, not graying hair.
She spoke of stars and winds that roam,
He talked of debts and building home.
Yet when they laughed, the sky stood still,
As if the world had bent to will.
The whispers came with furrowed brows,
Of time too stretched to make love vows.
But love, unruly, wild, and brave,
Refused to rest inside a grave.
His hand was worn, her skin was bright,
But in their gaze, they shared one light.
Not youth, nor age, could dim the fire,
For love alone had shaped desire.
So judge them not by numbers told,
For hearts don't rust, and love's not old.
The gap, though wide in others' eyes,
Was just a bridge beneath their skies.
They say love blooms on even ground,
Where years align and steps are sound.
But hearts don't count the age we bear;
They beat for souls, not graying hair.
She spoke of stars and winds that roam,
He talked of debts and building home.
Yet when they laughed, the sky stood still,
As if the world had bent to will.
The whispers came with furrowed brows,
Of time too stretched to make love vows.
But love, unruly, wild, and brave,
Refused to rest inside a grave.
His hand was worn, her skin was bright,
But in their gaze, they shared one light.
Not youth, nor age, could dim the fire,
For love alone had shaped desire.
So judge them not by numbers told,
For hearts don't rust, and love's not old.
The gap, though wide in others' eyes,
Was just a bridge beneath their skies.
Timeless Hearts
BY MISHKA SURI
They say love blooms on even ground,
Where years align and steps are sound.
But hearts don't count the age we bear;
They beat for souls, not graying hair.
She spoke of stars and winds that roam,
He talked of debts and building home.
Yet when they laughed, the sky stood still,
As if the world had bent to will.
The whispers came with furrowed brows,
Of time too stretched to make love vows.
But love, unruly, wild, and brave,
Refused to rest inside a grave.
His hand was worn, her skin was bright,
But in their gaze, they shared one light.
Not youth, nor age, could dim the fire,
For love alone had shaped desire.
So judge them not by numbers told,
For hearts don't rust, and love's not old.
The gap, though wide in others' eyes,
Was just a bridge beneath their skies.
The religious atheist
BY AICHA BENCHEMSI
A stubborn faith
A fate engraved in the state of creation
A whole-hearted convincedness that contradicts the notions of rationality so admired by men
Most deny this contradiction
Continue to lead a life of backtracking and sometimes second-guessing and blind eyes
deliberately covered by hands in denial for fear of the unknown being fatally bright
Some plunge into the opposite extreme
Could it be called denial of faith?
A life dedicated to the human tendency of blind and bias worship
Both faiths are stubborn, arrogant even
One snobbishly mounting a ten story steed, claiming that he is RIGHT. SMART. RATIONAL.
The other pitifully scoffing, “your fate is sealed and we are forever separated by a divine chasm”
The distance between the horse and the ground as well as the space in the chasm exists only within the
confines of the human ego
Brought together by the subconscious human desire to trust and believe
To be guided and governed
Telepathy
BY VERONICA ROWNY
floating in space
in a liquid goo
but don't worry, i'm with you—
with the first blow
chocolate dino, strawberry kitty
misty window in the cold
a warm little breath
making a star
hair pulled out, purplish blue
The style now
pink petals falling
it’s that time again
baby locks, barbie dolls,
eating fries off the floor
pinkie crescents around the eyes
the locks on the ground
the wind folds
angels breath
succumbed to
small little giggles
like the snap of a soda can
the rustle of wrappers at 2am
every now and then
we are back on the trampoline
counting “helipopters”
with sticky fingers
but most of the time
what is he even thinking?
Submerged
BY AICHA BENCHEMSI
When someone says they feel like they’re drowning it’s not always because of the lack of air—
It’s because of the savage current
A swirling and raging and crashing of waves as if your own mind had a personal vendetta
against itself
A fight so strong that you would never use on anyone but yourself
This is what drowning feels like
It feels like you jumped into a river wholly knowing you wouldn’t come out but then refused
to admit your fate
Hundreds thousands millions billions of
EVERYTHING ALL AT ONCE
What do you do?
“I dare you to lie down and relinquish,” the demon on your shoulder says as he readies his whip
for another hit
Admit defeat and crumble into the hard ground , no one will come help you, you have no one to
blame but yourself
NO
Spit at the demon, spit at the version of yourself who is mean scathing terrible horrid, a version
you would never inflict upon the ones you care about
Writhe violently against your chains and yell that you will never be beat
You will never be less than
Then stop.
He wonders if you have died
If your light has gone out at last
Little does he know you burn fiercer than ever
Deep deep deep
Within your mind you venture
Beyond the rage and the desire to rip through everything everyone it all
Far past the sorrow and hurt
The scared child confused by all the yelling and unsure of where she is
The broken girl crying at your jailer’s harsh words
There is a certainty.
One you had forgotten just minutes ago,
You feel confused as to why but, as you go farther you begin to feel a warmth
An inkling that starts to put you at ease
Blindingly, gloriously it all rushes back
I am strong? Loved Rational Bright Worthy
I am good.
The bindings dissolve
Your step is heavier, but your heart lighter and your hearth brighter
Academia
BY SERENA ST. JOHN
extolment and putrid veneration
flow from my still beating heart
through my veins, weed like. overpowering.
and twist around my mind until it bleeds
bubbling fat-scalding, acidic, dripping
slowly through the fissures of my hemispheres
until the pieces split and fall apart
down onto the ground in front of me.
but it isn’t enough; they grip me by the hair
and shove me atop the shambled pieces
forcing an assimilation of flesh,
but only my skin melts into the pavement.
Muse
BY NOSHIN SAYIRA
I kiss him,
letting the age gap dissipate.
It forces itself into my heart,
and I take it.
I want to be wrapped in that sticky love. I want to feel it around me and in me.
I want to stop breathing, I want to stop being myself,
let me be one with him. I don't want another version of life,
let him be my life.
I want to drown, I want to be stripped of myself, I want him.
Let me die
and be reborn as his wife.
Let my life be simple.
I hear his voice everywhere I go.
I lucid dream until it all becomes slippery, and he's all I see.
I feel his hands around me while I walk alone.
I kill myself believing he will revive me.
I knew who I was from a young age.
My friend asked me, “what do you regret the most?”
Naturally I say what I did with him.
The police asked me, “would you like to press charges?”
(The pity in their eyes made me want to kill them)
I said no. Politely.
I look in the mirror and ask myself, “do I know what intimacy is?”
The girl in the reflection laughs and gives me a smile.
Merely O’s
BY HENRY JOHNSTON
What could be blood?
Of course blood is
the river that takes each breath to shore,
the maid sweeping cellular detritus up,
the march that our fierce little white blood cell board to reach their battle.
But that’s what blood is to a 21st century student like me.
What was blood to, say, a Jewish peasant in the bronze age?
Blood was, like everything else, a gift from the almighty God,
a present bequeathed upon an unworthy race doomed to sin from conception. Yet Blood,
despite or perhaps due to its grandiose origins, was the notion of legacy liquified. Blood
runs thicker than water
(that’s how the cliche goes).
One might argue that theism before Darwin was excusable,
ergo this interpretation is at least
metaphorically, philosophically, epistemologically semi-valid.
But then in the same vein of pre-science logic,
we have to examine the fact that blood changes color often.
From its plum appearance underneath veins
(actually an extremely dark maroon but the eyes are faulty)
to the scarlet spray of an open slash - wherever the substance appears on the wavelength
spectrum, it’s time there is bound to be ephemeral.
There was a reason the Greeks and Romans distinguished the blood of their gods, calling it Ichor.
There was a reason why letting ‘impure blood’ is included in the French national anthem. There
was and still is a reason why the notion of racial bloodlines fills the rhetoric of bigots across time
and space from the Third Reich to the Confederacy to Project 2025.
What could be blood?
Could it be time with family and friends?
The choices you make to cement your impact on the world after you're long gone?
Or is it just marks on a sterile chart:
O’s, Negative and Positive.
Harmoniously,
BY SARAH DUNCAN
We sit at opposite ends of the bridge
and I reach for a glimpse of your eyes
before I find the words to bridge our divide.
I’ve dived in knowing
I can’t swim.
In those few minutes before I expected to drown,
fragments of your soul floated around,
and I heard its mellifluous sound.
The intricately strung violin
whose melodies are woven into the words you’re first to say
are a complementary harmony to your spoken tenor of bass.
My heart echoed its rhythmic beat,
thumping along to your song
until my composition was regained.
When you pulled me to the surface,
like a fish out of water, I gasped for air.
Beneath us,
two lonely rivers consume each other
when they converge as a larger stream.
Their journeys become intertwined
and the glimmering body’s tranquil trickle
reflects the harpsichord greeting you at heaven, or in your dream.
Perhaps I could strum my fingers through your hair,
but I want to soak up our song
and bathe in the melodies drifting through the air.
cookies, anyone?
BY CHASE AARON AGUDO
and for a few moments,
glimpses of infinity
will waft up like cigarette smoke
in my vicinity.
they'll tell me, soft and slow,
“some worlds you'll never know
until you are willing to brave
the rain, weather, and snow.
but should the journey stop
and Earth start caving in,
you must be brave enough to see
what a road it has been.”
Four Cadenzas
BY ELLA TAFT
1.
I hear witches preserved
Lizards in glass jars. They died, but
Saw everything magnified, like how we
All do before
We can get out.
2.
You’ve held the lighter to the
Wood the entire time, waiting for kindling
To catch, and calling them sparks—just tell me
You need warmth.
3.
Our people glassblow tulip mosaics,
The martyr’s prison turning bleak,
Their world distorted into color—
But all the while, they cannot speak.
4.
To all the rotting wrong
Maps that gave bad directions to
Worlds yet undiscovered: I’ll never know
Why you thought
What we had was never enough.
Bird without wings
BY ANONYMOUS
Who saw a bird without wings,
No one can hear his chirpings.
The rain wets his feathers,
He is bound by invisible tethers.
He did nothing wrong,
But he was accused of guilt for too long.
This world is always so unfair,
But who will care.
The bird is kind,
But it bears the greatest malice in its mind.
No one knows the bird's glory.
Only I know its story.
are you ok?
BY AMY SMOUT
are you ok?
i’m seven years old.
i’ve just hurt my knee,
playing with my friends.
a nice lady gave me a plaster,
i’m ok!
are you ok?
i’m eight, i’m a big girl now.
i didn’t get the doll i wanted for my birthday,
it’s ok, the toys i got were amazing!
mummy said i could play with them all day,
i’m ok!
are you ok?
i’m nine and a bit.
my teacher at school is really nice this year,
i love her so much.
mum and dad are sending me to after-school clubs a lot,
i like being at home… why do they do that?
i’m ok though!
are you ok?
i’m ten, my favourite number.
the schoolwork is getting hard now,
i like it though, it’s fun.
mum and dad are arguing every day and night.
i’m looking after my baby sister for them —
i think they’ll thank me.
i’m ok, i need to sleep.
are you ok?
it’s my eleventh today!
i’m curled up on the bathroom floor,
sobbing with this horrible pain.
my tummy is a punching bag for someone strong —
it’s so sore, i can’t think straight.
i look so different in the mirror.
i don’t like it.
my mum holds me and says it’s part of growing up,
and that we need to go shopping together.
i’m not ok. why does this have to happen?
are you ok?
i’m twelve and a few months.
secondary school is just around the corner,
i’m absolutely terrified.
what if people don’t like me?
what if i’m a neek?
what if i’m not cool enough to be liked by a boy?
what if they all think i’m a freak?
i’ll get lost on my first day,
probably be late to class.
i’ll embarrass myself over and over —
it’ll be so horrible.
do i really have to do this?
well… here we go.
i’ll be ok!
are you ok?
i’m a teenager — it’s official now.
i’m starting to hate school.
i don’t want to leave home anymore.
it’s horrible out there.
there are these girls at school,
with their slim waists and good grades.
they have boys tripping over their feet for their attention —
they don’t even care about them.
they laugh and smirk as i pass them by.
it makes me hate myself even more.
my grades are slipping.
i used to be so smart.
that was my best feature —
now i’m worthless.
i only have a few friends.
they don’t like me; they make it so clear.
why am i even here?
i’m not ok.
are you ok?
i’m fourteen. who cares though?
my friends have finally left me,
in the worst way possible.
they confronted me the other day,
after my final class.
they asked, “can we talk to you alone?”
and i said, “sure, why not.”
the worst answer possible.
we sat down around a bench,
and i braced myself for what they were going to say.
they said some horrible words.
i came so close to crying.
they said i was an attention-seeker,
selfish, rude, and dumb.
they said nobody cares what i do or say —
they apparently checked that with everyone,
and they all agreed, more or less.
i’m really not ok.
are you ok?
i’m fifteen next week.
that doesn’t mean much right now.
i’ve got a lot more on my mind than that —
mostly exams.
i sat my prelims a couple of months ago.
i didn’t do so well, and i disappointed my dad.
he pushed me to study hard and long, 24/7,
so i could get my grades right up
and not let him down.
my parents got in a huge fight last night —
there was glass broken and punches thrown.
i held my 4-year-old sister the entire night.
i didn’t dare sleep,
or cry, for that matter.
came down this morning,
in a flying hurry.
i was going to miss my final exam.
i just had time for my bruised mum to tell me what happened —
my dad had packed his stuff and left.
turns out, i failed that exam.
and all the ones before.
i simply couldn’t think.
my mind went places i didn’t know existed,
and stayed there for years.
i’m somewhat of a fable now —
the straight-A student turned idiot.
my ex-friends use me as an example
of what not to do at school.
i’m now in their guide: “how to become a freak 101.”
as if i wasn’t embarrassed enough.
otherwise, i’m ok.
are you ok?
that’s what the nurse is softly asking me.
i scream at her that i’m not,
then i break down, telling her i’m so sorry.
she says she is too.
my poor, sweet mum —
i loved her so very dearly.
when i got the call from the hospital late last night,
i came so very swiftly.
mum has been sick for a while now.
i was her personal carer.
i was driving my sister to nursery every day,
and picking her up again without fail.
i dropped out of school a while back —
my grades were bad anyway.
i couldn’t handle the stress when my mum got sick.
something had to give.
she went into hospital yesterday morning,
for a major surgery.
this one was essential in her cancer battle —
it had to go perfectly.
i changed the hospital’s ringtone on my phone,
so it would wake me instantly.
that ringtone didn’t fail me,
when they told me to hurry.
i woke my sister,
with great difficulty.
i pulled some mismatched clothes over her head,
and bundled her into the car.
i’m going through driving lessons —
i’ll be honest, i’m not the greatest.
that didn’t matter right now.
i forgot to be scared.
i slammed my foot to the floor,
and skidded out the drive.
i had memorised the route to the hospital previously,
in case this happened.
i burst through the hospital door,
my sister in my arms.
the nurse recognised me instantly,
and told me to follow her in a near sprint across the hospital
to my mum’s ward.
she looked so very pale.
i rushed to her side.
i fell to my knees and squeezed her hand,
trying not to let my tears fall,
trying to hold myself together —
for both of them.
it’s been a month since my mum lost.
i hope she’s happy up there.
i send her my love every single day,
and i wish her goodnight.
i’m now my sister’s legal guardian,
because there was no one else.
her dad is in jail for tax evasion,
and mum and dad were both only children.
it’s ok — i love raising her.
i treat her like my own.
i shall always be there —
a place she can call home.
i’ll be ok.
are you ok?
i’m doing a bachelor’s in psychology.
i’m behind, but i’m catching up quick.
i’m really enjoying it!
my sister lives in my apartment —
she goes to the local high school.
i met this amazing man.
we’ve been going out together.
compared to my childhood,
my life is a lot better.
i’m finally ok.
Choking on Mirrors
BY VERONICA ROWNY
Iridescent shards
Piercing into my bubblegum pink larynx
A scream held in stasis
Shielding the shimmer
With a polite smile
And a nod
“Yes, this is okay.”
Shards which shimmer like the eyes of them
Each one a mirror
Of a word gone unsaid
I am choking on invisible glass.
But,
Tell me, muse,
What is the point of setting fire to a star?
Did you know,
Flashing a floodlight at the sun is futile
The brightest ache dissolves
As quickly and yet as slowly
As the icecaps
Melt
In a world drunk on its brilliance.
I once whispered to a comet—
I asked if it ever got tired
Keeping a flame
Burning
For those who would never see it fall.
Muse,
Did you ever bleed for beauty?
Did you ever sit on the sterile floor?
Did you ever have to wait and wait until everyone had left just to get up and change cars again?
It hurts like fucking hell.
The wounds like
Lagoons
Turned into ravines.
But muse tell me why:
Why I was stripped of my clothes,
My dignity,
My patience,
Surrounded by the wishful roars of bears.
Why
Muse,
Would I rather die here?
Longest Wharf
BY HENRY JOHNSTON
A crack splits the wharf pavement—a thin,
ragged scar where the city bleeds out to the harbor.
Oil tankers ghost the horizon,
their steel hulls swallowed by the world's deep curve.
The sun sets like a copper coin flicked into a pool,
it’s gleam absent from the spokes of my bike.
Quiet families own the picnic tables; they wait,
moored in a silence without ambition.
Litter spills from the phalanx of trucks,
loud in their blown-up color:
a commerce of steaming platters and ice-tinged soda,
desperate and bright.
Above, the interstate hums,
a roiling sea raised on the huge, stone legs of a caterpillar.
The noise is a penetrating whoosh—
electric purrs, rubber, combustion, and the cajoling or irritable honks.
The silver hinge of my Ray-Band flash,
In brilliant dissent against the fading light.
The reason for the ride escapes me:
not the screen, not the pull of old waters,
but perhaps the gulls, wheeling and shrieking, avian emperors of the poisoned asphalt.