Poem

Writing

Will you drive?

By Hannah Docampo Pham

Suburban style van, with its stained coffee cup and sheaned sheets. The ceiling that sags and the mail tucked into the windshield, with the dent on the right of the bumper. The keys in the ignition, the fire has started. Will you drive?


Night in July

By Abigail Swanson

The fountain reflects light
onto the face of the library downtown.
We went there once, a long time ago.
It still glows.

Took note of the swept-out aisles
in the wavering light that shines through the windows.
So empty, so quiet.
A volume fallen down in Biographies.


unrefined.

By Arden Pryor

like the exuberance of bangs cut too short and stacks of bracelets that never match. 

gold is for the good days only. 

most days are silver. they are plentiful and lacking variation. 

endless hours and constantly runny eyes. 


5 Foot Giant

By Elena Unger

The world is large, but so am I.

An ocean of confused compassion

rolls through my veins,

and I balance boulders 

on unmanicured fingertips. 


Agnotology

By Anonymous

What will you let yourself know?

And what will you put in boxes

And crush

Hoping it won’t spring up again


all the things that make it so

By Isobel Li

yesterday, 

i was greeted by the moon herself in your driveway.

she left my palms damp with slobber in her wake

and i stood outside your front door,

feeling like a fraction, small but rightfully so


All We Do Not Know

By Elena Unger

This morning I listened to an interview 

with poet Ada Limón. She spoke about 

epiphanies and didactic endings

and how sometimes a poet must surrender 

to the discomfort of unknowing.

How sometimes it is best to listen 


Beach Day

By Clara Moss

i’m floating on my back with 

sunscreen spread along my nose and 

water lapping against my shoulders. 

i should be focusing on

how the sun is warming me from the outside — in or


Blank Pages

By Supriya Bolla

I wish I had trauma that I could spin into a story, 

a story that would grip your thoughts tighter than leather binding, 

Something I could rip to shreds, over-analyze in the margins, 


Boy Scout Camping Trip on The Eve of The Apocalypse

By Andy Villar

The sun went missing today.

There were no rivers of blood or plagues of locusts,

first-born children did not fall ill, nor did frogs descend on the cities.

It was quiet. 

The black hole stood stagnant.

We could only watch and wait.


Butter

By Gaby Kill

I am melting butter

in AP Statistics

draped over the desk

warm dripping out of leaky sleeves

as I slide puddley down the hallway my mother screams,

 “Finally, some fat inside you!”

someone needs to pour out my sneakers


C(at)-Section

By Sangitha Aiyer

As I pass through an unmarked apartment building,

I observe a woman’s relationship with a stray cat.

Obscured by the shadows of happy hour light,

the dirt that has accumulated on the floor’s grout still shines, 


Canyon

By Sumlina Alam

The Sun is a greedy emperor, 

Shining its light across the Canyon, 

And evaporating drops of water. 

 

With the land so parched and no color than red, 


Magician

By Ziyi Yan

Mmm, you are a distracted assent, you coat like cold sweat,

glisten

like contented sleep.

And then you are songless– muh like mundane, buzzing of the lampshade fibers,

quivering

from the lamplight flicker.


miranda

By Shaun Loh

The credits recover,

and suddenly like a k9 you snuffle the criminal boyhood out of my skin.

I always think myself circumspect in my cover-ups, but in seconds you know where my blindspot is.


on being called a gaslighter

By Stephania Kontopanos

PART I: AI is created

I think God made you and me out of binary code You call me an enigma,

But I do not speak your language. You would be the 1’s.

Standing tall

Always at the top

Perfect Aryan halo on your head I would be the 0’s.


Poem

By Savannah Voth

Ocean wanders in to contemplate me

drafts a verse about my ankles in

twisting foam, scrambles the lines

and forgets. A mirror in the slick

afterthought of water on sand

where my feet sink in soft parchment


pool float

By Kayla Brethauer

Floating through space feels like lounging on a pool float. True, your float is no pool float.

It’s a slab of discarded metal lost in the wasteland of the universe, and it’s pulling you with it, too.

In another time - a whole other life -


Prince Myshkin discovers the laws of physics

By Savannah Voth

(1) every puzzle has an empty space, and a piece that never seems to fit

everywhere.

on the train in november I found

a duality called us (antithesis as mirror) sorry it is colder here than I remembered

and I am tired

of being called a dreamer


Questions for the Departed

By Lexi Newsom

Wrong

Is how still the air is, standing

Is how grey the sky is, weeping

Is how red the fallen leaf is, dying

Is how green the grass is, living

Living, living, living

A breath in, a breath out

Taken for granted—granted, it’s


Rain

By Sumlina Alam

Under my umbrella,

I watch the clear drops descend.

They hurl, abiding gravity,

As they run, far away,

From the hands of the sky.

It makes sense for the clouds to darken,

To yowl in pain,

And to jolt fear across the land.


Runs in The Family

By Gaby Kill

the vents in my grandmother's old car blow

cigarette smoke at my left knuckles

and right forearm.

there's something so cold about crawling back to the house and home

where Caroline kicked me out for borrowing her water bottle


Sestina of the Man at Eternity's Gate

By Esther Cheng

Are these the pangs of birth or the aftershocks of death?

What awaits me beyond this shore?

And even now when legs and feet have failed me

The sand shows trails, like serpents, of this fragility

I bleed: the gravel grinds my skin and flesh


Ode to My Grandma

By Austina Xu

李白静夜思

床前明月光,

疑是地上霜.

举头望明月,

低头思故乡

This is my dad’s favorite poem.

And I have no idea what it means.


Slave Morale

By Joey Wu

Breaking News - Serial Killer James ‘Smiles’ Hiraeth Suspected for the Murder of a 7-year-old girl. Mother Beth Reiner stricken with grief, medical practitioners dispatched to relocate to local sanitarium

Forgiveness - Beth Reiner


For my mother

By Arden Yum

After Toni Morrison’s Beloved

 

Mother, tell me about the child in your womb.


mother's guilt

By Stephanie K

I ate the placenta and the umbilical cord

(and i ate and i ate).

I tasted the iron on my teeth

(it stained until i swallowed and i swallowed the hydrogen peroxide).


Artificial Dreams

By Isabelle Shachtman

Been sitting still the whole day

Can’t sleep

 

Thank you trazowhatervthehellyouare

For the frog and the eyes

And the image of my

Ex-girlfriend in the sun and

 

What am I saying?

What’ve I done?

 


A Bicycle Accident

By Cheyenne Mann

Graze the lips with concrete and floss with blood

Wintergreen and sharp, pennies in the mouth that

Rattle like bicycle wheels down long hills.

Bandaid sticky, adhesive concealer that fortifies a face

To face the world dripping with bruises, salt, and the momentum


Father

By Gaby Kill

My brother’s just moved into college!

Well, not entirely- there’s still his coffee machine and a box of granola bars, but we’re driving those to him today.