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Table of Contents
A Demonstration by Megan Amero
Podium by Zachary Mintz
Museum of Stolen Wishes by Nuha Shaikh8
a biotic by Max Migdail
Fragment by Joseph Harmon
Soliloquy by Paula Gil-Ordonez Gomez
Dào by Nasrin Lin
Jump by Lauren Daukaus
Catalogue of Searching by Isabella Urdahl
情爱的你 by Nuha Shaikh
yellow news by Eli Sol Strich
discount silky conditioning lotion for oily skin by Nasrin Lin
Portrait of butterflies in bloom by Isabella Urdahl
Double Yellow by Alex Eliasen
Futon by Matthew Mcgovern
Learning to Love an Accident of a Hometown by Juliette Wu
Ode to My Body Hair by Anonymous
Rainstorm by Paula Gil-Ordonez Gomez
Led Astray by Mathew Mcgovern
My Night Sky by Alex Eliasen
Love Denied by Jon Adams
Pictures of Summer by Jonathan Ramirez
our house by the waterfall by Zachary Mintz
Featured Art by
Irina mengqi Wang
by Megan Amero
this is the way i fall
over into the ground and
this is the way the earth
wraps itself around me
my blood turning green like envy with
each chlorophyll-laden beat of
my underground heart.
this is the way the sky grabs me
by my exposed ankles—
a stray breeze bestowing upon my skin
the thick cloak of frostbite.
this is the way i fall
moving with wingless flight;
this is the way my body
knows no end.
by Zachary Mintz
Enough! those in whom we’ve sown
our trust have caved, come
to naught like stalactites,
sharpened dangers set to pierce all passerby
Left to coalesce lest someone
Discover you Flaunt!
I just can’t wait for the day
your balls get caught
in the zipper of your lies.
They think you’re masturbating.
Museum of Stolen Wishes
by Nuha Shaikh
There are no more sacred places,
Just land where gold once hid,
Just shards of history that
I now use to pick through my memories.
What do we collect when we eat?
Does the type of consumption matter
More than what is being consumed?
I wonder if the winners are always
The ones who are eaten,
We all lose in the end,
And their lives are the sweetest to taste.
I’ve never tried it but I’ve heard
That you taste like silk-silver,
Like molten metal made soft again
Is that not what success is?
A delicacy, to be sure.
In our jealousy and shame,
We watched you devour him,
And it seemed like enough
Until you turned to us and said:
Silk-silver or jade-water,
I take what I can get,
And I can taste everything,
For the world is made for
Creatures like me,
And isn’t this fair?
by Max Migdail
bats and butterflies
never done justice
swoop and swerve and melt and mingle and m.c. escher into one
layers and plains become a fantasy
off glossed paper white and grey are purple and green and red and blue and orange and god
alive to parallel expansion an exploration in corpuscularianism
better to develop forever on a two dimensional plane or exist confined within a third
frequently birds capture more of what it means
to be human raptors and ravens prey
my only acceptable murder
acted in aid
to scare a weakened swallow into the arms of an eagle
or let the bats end
or collapse the butterflies into a single frame
were apes able to fly
they would never touch the earth again
and would become confined to cages of branches
and coat hangers shutting down tokyo
a biotic abiotic theory of truth
life ends when it stops being imagined as something with an end
would fade to nothing and no one
would notice not a thing
what makes a bat a bat
By Joseph Harmon
I’m out with the dog, which isn’t my dog. I keep forgetting his name, but I appreciate the company. He’s throwing this eager look back at me, like I’ve got a direction in mind. I don’t. He knows the woods better, and we’ll just have to live with that.
Ah, dog, what are you doing? Crunching through the frozen creek bed, is what. Now he looks a little startled. Buddy, what did you expect?
Earlier that morning, I said yes. Yes to all of it. I’m going to apply to new jobs, I’ll tidy up the weird little tchotchkes Paul has lying around, I’ll give Sarah a call and say exactly what I mean. Then, as I was brushing my teeth and looking through Paul’s medicine cabinet, something about the light outside changed. I don’t know why, but any possibility of those things happening shut down. So I thought to myself, Uh, why don’t we take a little break? I went online and lost myself in a spiral of news, funny videos, and old emails that reminded me what I meant to people. The day went down the drain, and here I was walking this dog.
My brother, Paul, part of him had to be loving this. An ego boost. He’s not the runt anymore; I’m the one camped out in his guest room. I won’t mention it unless he gives me a reason to lash out, but he’s being too cautious for that. In passing, he sometimes rests a hand on my shoulder like a sensitive kindergarten teacher—which he is, actually, and a pretty good one from what I’ve heard. He’s patient and he listens. He tells me that the kids surprise him every day.
When we were kids, we were wild. In the third grade he bit my ear, latched on like a pit bull and didn’t let up. In high school we called him Pall Mall because he’d always be smoking them in the senior parking lot, a big scowl on his face. Maybe it’s my fault. I was a bad role model. I’ve made some wrong turns, sure, I’ll be the first one to admit that. But all through it, Paul’s gentleness was there. If he hurt someone, you could trust him to set it right. Me, I’m not so sure. We keep going anyway. I’d like to think the surprises are buried in us.
Sarah doesn’t think so. She says I’m stuck, and she wants me to shape up. I tell her I’m trying. I see what needs to happen, but I can’t seem to cross that gap. The other day, in our kitchen, I gave up in a good way. I said to her, Hey, do you want this omelette? It was a work of art. Despite how stoned I was, I had caramelized the onions and everything.
“No thanks,” she said, but I scooped it onto a plate anyway. She was wearing a kind of bitter confused smile, the new way she looked at me. I still liked it. She knew all my tricks, but that meant that she knew me.
“Honey, you’re a mess,” she said. I grinned as wide as I could.
“Can I get some constructive criticism?” I asked.
Now the dog is completely still, rigid, staring off into the pines. The sun has already disappeared, but it’s hanging around just enough to see. I should have brought a headlamp.
“What is it?” I say to the dog. “No more walk?”
The dog ignores me, and I know it must be afraid. Its instincts are kicking in, but I’m too big and dumb to sense the danger. I squint off into the distance, but see nothing.
If there’s some danger out there, I just want to see it. I want to know what I’m dealing with. It’s worse to wait. I tell myself that I’m ready but know that I’m not. The dog and I just stand there, our breath condensing in the cold. If this is it, we go out together, not knowing each other’s names. Maybe there’s something beautiful in that.
Paul has a book on the coffee table that I’ve looked through. I’ve looked through everything—my days are full of hours I didn’t know we had. It’s a book of poetry, which is not at all Paul’s thing. He got it as a white elephant gift last December. What I like about it is that it’s poetry fragments. They’re from Ancient Greece, Rome. Just a tiny piece of the author’s work stands for all they were.
I’ve been wondering if this is my fragment. If this moment will define me. My choices have led me here, so probably yes. But who’s to say that it’s a low, that there hasn’t been lower. Why is it high or low, like on some graph?
Screw it, I’m out. Don’t show me the danger. I’ll just go home. I tug the dog back. He’s still transfixed, but I make him leave. It’s Paul’s home, not mine. He built it for himself and I’m resting there before I rebuild my own. This is all temporary. I have these thoughts, and even though they’re simple, I feel like they explain everything. Then, right as I’m about to understand, they slip away.
As I open the door I remember that I made a dish in the crockpot earlier. It was stewing during the walk, waiting for me, becoming something better. The smell is warm and good and strong. It welcomes me back. That’s all I want: to be welcomed back with nobody home.
I unclip the dog and he rushes to his water bowl as if dying of thirst, sloshing it over the sides.
While he does I find the coffee table, find the book. I settle down on a quilt that Paul claims our grandmother sewed but I know for a fact he bought at Kmart.
Everything is laughter and unthinkable dust, my favorite fragment says. Is that true? They don’t know who said it.
by Paula Gil-Ordonez Gomez
my footsteps feel heavy
in my childhood
backyard tonight as i relight
i feel my nose touch
flame and i burn
up it’s a subtle
touch and i’m grateful
for my lips pressed
against a nurturing
burn i feel go through
my throat it hurts
but it’s kind as well
sometimes i feel
when my cheeks
are flushed and my hair
is golden but
i envy the girls
who never get cold
built with frail frames
that don’t hide
of jacket and scarf
i don’t even want
the second cig
anymore but i finish
everything i start
for the most part
the last ash falls
into a bruised plant
and i collect it
back into my empty
can so my parents don’t
recognize this vice
the burn feels good
on my skin and i slightly
wish there was more
to pick up i want
by Nasrin Lin
Think about / the allure in being vulgar
this walking banyan freak
flooded to the brim / a barbiturate-assemblage
self-tentacled / goddess of the swamp
call me Nüwa / so I can sing myself a song
and mold a choir out of recurring dreams / a pillar
from the five elements / in my own image
transmembering into a song
this procreant urge of the world / out
of order, right order / breathe into me a composition
not pensées but processes / revisited via turning pages
in and out and in between / then call me Hart Crane
and meet me at the bottom of the sea / the cruel and the free
by Lauren Daukaus
you are not safe
and I am not safe.
you may, however,
be tempted to believe
otherwise, as many fools
before you have done, and as
many fools after you will do. you
may be so inclined to fall subject to
promises of the forever, the certain, the
damned. and you may find yourself wishing
that the existentialist within you dies as you crawl
into bed with a naive smile and a mind shut so tight it
forgets how to inhale. I, of course, do not wish you this fate.
I pray that you live knowing every step you take may lead
you off a cliff, that you understand this impossible,
fragile, random existence. and that you use this
knowledge to be grateful, brave, loving every
chance you get. we fleeting humans tend to
long for security. and with that dream
we discard our sacred vitality. if
you’d like, we can hold hands
and just freefall, tumbling
into uncertainty. please,
darling, please leap
before you look.
Catalogue of Searching
by Isabella Urdahl
modeled after Rebecca Lindenberg’s Catalogue of Ephemera
I’ve been given soft maple lighting threaded with pieces of piano.
I’ve been given un coup de foudre, bouleverser, and tu me manques.
I’ve been given caramels of his language to coat my tongue with.
I’ve been given her playlists that stick like gum in my brain.
I’ve been given a stress ball made of shards of broken glass. I used to like that photo.
I’ve been given sound bites on Tokyo, PhDs, Arcadia, and Paradise Lost.
I’ve been given little electric text bubbles on the best way to drown in knowledge.
I’ve been given a needle full of serotonin.
I’ve been given the pages of Possession and the melody of Honeybee.
I’ve been given lyrics of Luck Pusher and I’ve been given bad odds.
I’ve been given a heavy sweater that swallows me whole in defenseless cashmere.
I’ve been given soft folds of pleading, delicate cream cotton.
I’ve been given the souls of Europe’s lonely, hopeful cobblestone streets, New York’s
ambitious hum, and a forest lake dripping in sunshine.
I’ve been given midnight November runs.
I’ve been given ice-cube ears, snowflaked hair, a face full of moonlight and
cheeks of poppy petals.
I’ve been given humid August nights, shirts kissing skin, clinging tight
through sweat and a heartbeat.
I’ve been given gasping for air.
I’ve been given hands faltering over a keyboard, stumbling syllables.
I’ve been given awkward teenager poems.
I’ve been given a cramp in my cardiac muscle,
a corkscrew exploding open a pomegranate into pebbles.
I’ve been given the plum slosh of mellow red merlot.
I’ve been given an absinthe-burned tongue.
I’ve been given the dehydrating warm beige of the Sahara.
I’ve been given the fresh laundry and dried basil aroma of a well-loved studio
in a city held together by aching plaster stones and cracking plywood wishes.
I’ve been given a bookshelf to hold the overflowing pile on my bedside table.
I’ve been given Christmas decorations in May.
I’ve been given About Time and melting bronze clocks that stain my hands sunset.
I’ve been given a pulled tooth and the raw, fleshy gap
that it leaves behind.
One I can’t help but touch,
despite the blood.
I’ve been given Murakami’s On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful
April Morning and I’ve been given wondering if 75% Perfect means a best
friend or a glass ¼ empty.
I’ve been given the amnesia of Iceland’s Northern Lights.
I’ve been given accidentally blue fingers.
I’ve been given the thing that feathers.
I’ve been given a fresh page and the first drop of ink.
By Nuha Shaikh
Fall is the season of goodbyes, of turning over new leaves and pressing the most brightly colored memories in between the pages of the few books I brought with me to college. I’ve been compulsively picking up the leaves that catch my eye, I feel guilty otherwise. There’s a stack of at least eleven of them now. I don’t want to forget any of these days.
O Allah, there is nothing made easy except what you make easy,
and You make difficulty easy, if You wish
اللَّهُمَّ لَا سَهْلَ إِلَّا مَا جَعَلْتَهُ سَهْلًا، وَأَنْتَ تَجْعَلُ الْحَزْنَ سَهْلًا إِذَا شِئْتَ
It’s 2020, I’m now 20, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so clearly. How desperately I wish my reflexes were right, so that I could hold on to you forever, curled fingers around your own, and we could be young and eternal, friendship and love perfectly balanced as we found a home in each other, growing up together.
Find, find, find a friend,
I found a good friend,
salute to them and hold their hand,
You are my good friend,
I left home, finally, after dreaming about it for years, escape was such a tantalizing flight, as I headed East into the Sunrise. I left a space for you, honored who we used to be, and gave us room to grow. But giving you room and board only left me lonely and alone, dusty beds and cracked mirrors, open windows restless in the wind.
I don’t think anything will happen but I still hope, God willing.
إن شاء الله.
I’ve now latched the windows and closed the doors. You still have the key but the path to me is quite different than when you left me, and then I left you. If you make your way back to me, I welcome you with open hands, as always. And if you don’t, that’s okay too. I’ve said my goodbyes and made my peace with the ghost of you that lingers in me.
Please take care of yourself.
by Elli Sol Strich
When she called the sky was a yellow-cold
static spewing over the line
hollow voice cracking
I held my breath and
traced thin wavering pavement cracks
slender summer rain that started slowly
was now thunder crying
a heaving silence-
I tried listening to her sliver voice
words plunging into my ear,
nestling into crevasses, throbbing, itching
Tried explaining to the worms writhing past
the too-clean-sky morning, her once bursting laugh
that marinated words in saffron-
no longer listening now only watching.
empty shadows on sun-stained cement,
frail dandelions wilting;
their heads bowing, bowing as if praying,
that metallic after-taste of sour yellow,
swallowing the bitterness.
discount silky conditioning lotion for oily skin
*TW: contains queer slurs
by Nasrin Lin
golden immigrant child
watches the Sunday football game
plays pong with his friends
in letters and track pants
drops a “faggot” at each plop
a prepackaged narrative arc
golden immigrant child
lands jobs at fancy acronyms
a bona fide entrepreneur seeks
a bitch that cooks and free
reign on the n-word
using the friend card that doubles
as business card coded handshake
golden immigrant child
aims for that penthouse
with three pools and immigrant maids
collectively known as the ah-yis
because one saves too little face
and two is just the Congratulations
paper cutout on the cake
three is the cake you stick your dick into
after everybody leaves
golden immigrant child
gets a wedding invitation
from his disowned sister
the estranged daughter
that dirty dyke cancerous
rot in this great family name
golden immigrant child
pure golden bred reminiscing
on brighter days
Portrait of butterflies in bloom
by Isabella Urdahl
“Tous les amoureux ont-ils l’impression d’inventer quelque chose?”
Portrait de la jeune fille en feu
In my chest there bloom butterflies with flower petal wings.
They need air so I give them the memory of the breath leaving my lungs,
quand tes lèvres
turned up at the corners, une intrigue,
a soft lighthouse from across the room.
They take all my oxygen and I surrender
it like the body surrenders
to a song, to the touch of tes
doigts qui jouent on my skin.
I cannot remember a time when I didn’t need more oxygen,
but you leave me so breathless my body might have just found itself again –
Je voudrais courir et fling my watercolor limbs
off this cliff and plummet. Wingless,
bouleversée, and wanton.
Who knew le coup de foudre could make you feel so electric.
Take it all and breathe it back
into me with your tongue,
which is ta question et
ma réponse in one.
Take these butterflies.
My ribcage a mere canvas house
for their explosion of hues and
that your eyes painted into me like a rayon de lune
pirouetting off glass and into a room that was waiting for le soleil.
I knew nothing of music until your color-bathed fingers
traveled the trembling paper of my chest.
Flower petal wings string a symphony in my stomach,
orchestrated by the brushstrokes your lips coat onto mine.
Would Camus think me in love?
“. . . tout donner, tout sacrifier sans espoir de retour”
I think Madame Desbordes-Valmore’s powdered nose would turn
at the way
je laisse tes paroles danser dans mes artères.
And your words honey-stick to me but I’d make a welcome sign for bee stings.
And I’d carry all les crèves-coeur,
for one mouthful of your syllables ambering my vision.
I think Balzac knew what he was saying when he named Love — poetry of the senses.
Que tu es belle.
The shape of your laugh is my favorite line break.
The life raft of your smile hidden behind your hand, la syllabe qui interrompt mon mètre.
The curve where ta joue rencontre ton cou, a liaison more imaginative
than tout ce que la langue française pourrait rêver.
And I a — ,
en train de prier,
pour tu, que tu complètes la phrase, la peinture
that you began in my body.
by Alexander Eliasen
Asphalt under rain
Legs begin twitching
Another sanguine victim
Motionless in vain
Glass still shattering
Sheet metal drips pale silence
Sirens slowly wane
by Mathew Mcgovern
I see a deep forest
in the evergreen futon
whose wrinkles are brimming
with landscapes, little hills
written through wavering folds
shapes resembling eyes just closed
a brow arching in and a large crooked nose
indiscript visages won’t deign to define themselves
Perhaps these fissures ressemble glaciers
stacked, full and monumental
or veins and patches of flesh splayed out
on this awe-inspiring canvas,
laudable yet floppy futon
content in the corner of the room
the sag of whose own weight
makes a low wide smile.
Learning to Love an Accident of a Hometown
by Juliette Wu
Modern Shenzhen, modern in a post-Deng,
Post-technological boom sense, is only a
Few years my elder. Growing up, I watched
The evisceration of a “fishing village” and its
Infantile self-sufficiency a Transcendentalist
Would think bucolic or picturesque, you know,
Despite the detritus of wars and wrongs and all that
And I watched not a snake shed its skin but
A caterpillar deliquesce in its rancid cocoon
(Death as a prerequisite for rebirth.)
Perhaps the butterfly that emerged was iridescent
But these are violent foreign colors, haphazardly
Treated with the corporate-cosmopolitan odors
And that globalist aesthetic of a concessioned Canton.
But the self-assured westernized snob in me objects,
Why eulogize? What does it matter? You misguided
Faux-nationalist, you’ve reaped your benefits, spoken
The kind of accentless (allow me to be anti-descriptivist)
Lingua franca English of the international pastiche,
When otherwise you’d have been a myopic rustic girl
Taxidermied, stuck performing for the ogling orientalist…
Now subsume this grotesque tableau—this Adidas bike
Propped against steamed bun stall, this large glowing
Transnational fast food sign, this local toddler nudging
Mother asking about that gweilo and the ensuing offense
Of the man who overhears, this Asian-faced customer base
For this Western shopping mall, these great dilapidated
Amalgamated throngs of part-Cantonese | part-American
Part-Hakka | Part-British | part-Communist | All Chinese
City of a fumbling postmodern accident.
An Ode to my Body Hair
Zach started wearing shorts
Fabric cutting off nine inches below the waist
Matted rivers of glistening soldiers
Stood erect on his ankles, shins, and thighs
Bent knees traversed my forests of envy
Desire overtook my fingers and they crept
Closer towards his displays of masculinity
With realization comes clambering to the bathroom
My thick traitorous fingers poking
At the mass of naked flesh covering my vital organs
I sat hairless, defeated, yet empowered
Plans forming with revolutions of hope and the end of PE
Walking home, I prodded the protruding lump
Which resided above my hips
Its smoothness recalled the pure power held
By Zach’s happy trail of fur
Outside my house I kindled a fire
Teeming with jealousy and follicle fascination
Crossing myself, I prayed for growth
She arrived, smirking, agreeable, auspicious
Floating, her eyes bulging with instability
“What is your desire?”
A hairy demeanor or a flash of Zach’s abdomen
How can one choose whether
A body of thick layering masculinity
Fairs better than the brief glimpse
At an apologetically full manhood
Sitting here with hair contaminating my vision
Spilling over my brow bone, I begin to rethink my decision
The hair I’m covered in replaces the man I’ll never be
by Paula Gil Ordoñez Gomez
Toes tapping to the rhythm
Of thunder shouting
Pushing neighboring trees
To crack and crumble
Sometimes I understand
Those branches laying
Defeated on my doorstep
Fractured and fragile
Snapped into twigs
Crushed under careless feet
I feel whole
Like the trunk two doors down
Refusing the wind’s shoves
by Matthew McGovern
I stepped down from the rattling bus into a foot of slush. From there, I hopped the brown snow embankment onto the lumpy, icy sidewalk, where I trudged along.
After about forty paces, I sensed some figures following me from a short distance, close enough that I could hear their chatter. As I brushed snow from my shoulder, I looked back to see who they were: jackals in leather jackets, whom I had seen on the bus in the back row, snickering. I had observed them eyeing me back there, hungry and sleep-deprived.
I was a big piece of prey, too slow to outrun them. I resorted to other means of getting the jackals off my trail, I veered from the sidewalk into a field of thick snow. After a few long strides, I was well away from the icy path. I turned back to see them hesitate, and paw at the ground nervously in their tattered, low-top shoes.
To my surprise and delight, they started leaping in the imprints my boots had left, with a grace unbecoming of predators like them. On the pads of their feet they leaped, and I decided to lead them in a dance through the white, unblemished snow.
Something in these hyenas’ movements made me forget my fear and revel in the chase. I accented my steps with curving arcs and swings. A long bound, ten rapid steps (which called for light feet,) interspersed with one-foot hopping, then a twirl. But as I looped all the way back to the sidewalk, I realized they had strayed from the steps I had been leading them in.
Underneath a leafless tree, one jackal produced a crisp, moving tune for the other two, who pranced and pirouetted in tandem, ignoring my imprints in the deep snow. One of them hoisted the other onto his shoulders, like figure skaters, and held the position as the song subsided.
On the hard sidewalk, I clomped the snow from my boots and observed my former pursuants, engrossed. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t contain my applause. The three heads snapped towards me, self-conscious and irate at having been led on. They began inching towards me, with hunger in their eyes, so I turned and bolted away on the uneven sidewalk.
by Alexander Eliasen
My Night Sky
Each night, day surrenders to a golden dusk
And you begin looking after me from above
You are my night sky
Face like midnight, shining star-like eyes
Your smile inspires the moon’s return
Constellations form your body
The trees and I reach to try grasping you
I miss experiencing the black night together
by Jon Adams
Cuando pienso en nosotros
No me siento vacío
De verdad, me siento fatigado.
De esperar un cambio
En el panteón de tu vida
Soy un dios pequeño
Sin la gravedad de Júpiter
Ni la sabiduría de Minerva
Mi altar sólo tiene una vela
Que se ha quemado
Hasta al final de su mecha
Y algún incienso viejo y apagado
Ofrecidos por una tierra y un pueblo
Cuyos nombres el tiempo ha olvidado
Mi día festivo es un asunto sencillo
Sin carne ni vino
Solo pescado y leche
Una combinación que en una época
Hoy en día ninguna recuerda el origen
Y francamente yo tampoco.
Pero se sigue observando
Se continúa practicando
Con la esperanza de que
Algún día todo volverá a memoria.
When I think of us
I don’t feel empty
Truthfully, I feel fatigued.
Waiting for a change
In the pantheon of your life
I’m a little god
Without the gravity of Jupiter
Nor the wisdom of Minerva
My altar has only a single candle
That has been burned
To the end of its wick
And some old, extinguished incense
Offered by a land and a people
Whose names time has forgotten
My feast day is a simple affair
With neither meat nor wine
Only fish and milk
A combination that at one time
Nowadays no one remembers the origin
And frankly neither do I.
But it is still observed
In the hope that
Someday it will all come back.
Pictures of Summer
by Jonathan Ramirez
My mother, she paints me a navy blue sky
with stars to guide me through the dark of night
she takes my hand and whispers into my ear todo estara bien
and I believe every word that comes out of her mouth.
My mother, she loves to be a mother so much she never lets me go
says there are peligros out in the world too intense for me to handle on my own
and I believe her and dread the times I stand alone.
Now, my mother has grown old,
and I’m no longer a little kid
she still wants to hold my hand but I shake my head
and tell her camina detrás de mí instead ,
solo dime que estarás ahí si me caigo, eso es todo lo que quiero saber.
With each season that fades, my mother recites stories untold,
chanting the secret each one of them holds,
a lesson deep within the words engraved in her tongue.
My mother, she paints me pictures of summer perfectly where we are right now
and tells me anything else esta mal
so wrong like a cold winter in the middle of July.
I’ve learned gritos don’t fix anything and silence only makes things worse
so now I whisper softly in her ear, créeme cuando digo que
estoy listo para tomar tus palabras y añadir las mías
y así crear mi propia historia.
I hope one day I find the words to build my own world
and she learns to love me even when I’m not home,
even if it hurts.
our house by the waterfall
by Zack Mintz
Our house by the waterfall was
the dream we rebuilt, and we shared the lines in the ceilings, these wonderful feelings the kind you can’t fathom
to be there.
When your breath hit the windows
it sauntered and mellowed
it had nowhere to go
but the rafters above. It clung to them dearly
like pearls on necks dreary
or diamonds strung zig-zagged
across streams that flow bleary.
These storms we kept
the times the creeks wept
they bind us to earth,
the places leaves slept.
The mystical whirling
the drops’ slated swirling
Though I stand vigorous and tall
I haven’t forgotten it all.
*inspired by “our house by the waterfall” by Dahm.