Elysian
AU's Literary Magazine
Volume 4, Issue 1
Poems
ASHES
Leeba Joseph
Hopelessness,
Undeterred by the protective shield I built
Consumed me.
Breathless and weak,
I cast my last defense.
I curled up and waited for the unending storm to give me room to breathe.
I waited and I waited.
Wondering countless times if it will ever end.
If I can feel even a tiny sprinkle
Of hope.
The wind beat against me,
The rain came in torrents,
Stabbing me with a thousand harsh thorns,
And the earth called me down to its depths.
I lay there.
Arms tight around myself.
Believing the cocoon to be strong for as long as I stayed,
For as long as I survived the storm,
Little did I know
The wind slowly shredded me
Little by little, piece by piece, to a million pieces,
While the rain burned me with its piercing cold.
I cried out.
Knowing that I am alone,
With no one to answer the call for help.
Little did I know,
The call of the earth was not to drag me down to its burning embers,
But to make thunder from the pain,
While my pieces became one with the air.
To provide strength to the unheard siren calls
Of the lost soul that was drowning in the waves of unending suffering.
Through verses that flowed and spoke of understanding.
Little did I know,
Even though I couldn’t find hope
I could,
I will,
Find strength to uncurl,
To brush out the locks in my hair,
To let the tears wash off in the shower,
To stretch my muscles to paste on a smile.
If only to avoid scorn and oversensitive questions.
If only to ease the discomfort of others around me.
And to catch my ashes and tell their story,
Talk of the blue flames that burned them,
In a verse that flows
To lend a quiet word that tells the tale of your companions.
If no one will be kind, sweetie, be kind to yourself.
For if you can’t, after what you went through, who can?
Because sometimes it’s just you,
Who can see the dead look in your eyes,
Feel the demon eating you from the inside out,
Understand that you are just a shell, not your shining soul?
I wish I could say it ends,
That it will end soon.
Promise you a release from the fire.
But I can’t.
The ashes I find in the air just gets denser
I could only offer a prayer
That at least one hand embraced you and said, “I understand.”
I wish it was me.
We could have curled up together and cried.
But honey, life told and taught us to work up a smile for others.
BREATHE
Corri Rogan
b r e a t h e.
Bright lights overhead. I can’t see a thing. breathe.
My body is numb, I can’t move it. breathe.
Is that my heartbeat? breathe.
It’s so fast. breathe.
I can’t… breathe.
I’m back. breathe.
Everything is peaceful. breathe.
This isn’t the same place? breathe.
My body… The pain is gone. breathe.
I have wings. I’m wearing bright white. I can see. I can-
b r e a t h e.
CHAINMAIL
Meghan Kenny
This is a poem for anyone that’s ever hated the body they live in.
Anyone who’s ever been angry at themselves for their skin being too pale or too dark.
For their body having too many curves or not enough.
For their knees being too boney and knocking against each other like spoons in a box of silverware or for missing a gap between their thighs.
As if the space between your legs defines your worth.
Are you aware that your heart pumps about 115,200 times a day, blood surging through your body like electricity buzzing in power lines?
Or that your body reproduces ten billion white blood cells every twenty-four hours, each cells’ purpose to fight off any unwanted guests that dare enter their abode?
Or that while you’re asleep your body is internally recharging like the iPhone that is so glued to your hands, only better?
Your body is a team; bones connect to ligaments that connect to muscles.
Your skin a sheath of armor; a blanket of chainmail that wraps around every inch of your body,
Disguised as silk but as tough as the titanium wall you’ve built around your own heart.
Your brain pumps chemicals like it’s competing in a drag race, the hormones flying through your body like a Dodge charger on a track.
A splash of serotonin for joy, a dash of dopamine for passion, a gaping glob of glutamate to help me remember all the things that I’ve learned.
Like how to not hate my body because it is the only person who’s ever defended me and is the last one that ever will.
I don’t believe in regrets, but if I had to have one, it’d be that I spit in the face of my own reflection, despite that my body’s sole purpose and undying loyalty is devoted to keeping me alive.
Who cares if your body has a little less hair or a little more fat or too many freckles or none at all
When it can breathe and run and think and feel?
So help me God, if I don’t start loving every cell that’s healed every wound or every atom sewn into the blanket of my existence.
If my body won’t let poison run through my veins, then I’ll be damned if I let poison run through my thoughts.
My body is not a temple.
It’s a goddamn kingdom and the only person wearing the crown
Is me.
COLLECTION
Zach Ramsdell
I can picture the cover of Frank Bill’s Crimes
In Southern Indiana – the steel frame of a car, rusted
And burnt, silhouetted against a sea of dying
Prairie, all twisted metal and bullet holes.
The cover is long gone by now, torn
Off and thrown away in a trash
Can somewhere near Havana, Cuba.
Kristen found a note to Stephanie scrawled
On its blank side, having asked for a book to read --
Words she thought reserved for her.
And, in Blood Meridian: or the Evening of Redness
In the West, I shook out Caroline’s critical analysis
Of McCarthy’s magnum opus, black ink smudge
Where it bled, and on the backside, a memo to herself:
Work at 8 am, Lyft to Fresno City at 11:30.
San Jose this Sunday with Zach?
I don’t remember where my Murakami
Has gone, but it could be in Venice with Valentina --
Or is it Tuscany with Genny? I know, at least, that Vally
Has my copy of Scar Tissue.
The worse for wear copy of Palahniuk’s Choke
Once spent six months in San Antonio with Morgan,
Its hot pink sleeve slightly more subdued
Than the second, newer version lying
Next to it on the floor.
I didn’t think I’d get the first one back.
COMMUTER
Dalin Johnson
Praying I beat the construction,
I turn on my headlights,
and creep down the driveway.
I wince at the thud of the pothole.
On Somonauk Road,
I pass Mrs. VB-T’s Forerunner
and remember I never turned
on the music I pay for.
On Chicago Road, I cringe
at my embarrassing moments.
Hiding behind sunglasses,
I turn down the heat.
Little Rock and its chickens
slow me down. I worry the smell
of gasoline is from my car
Every day, it’s not.
On Clark and Jericho,
Taylor Swift sings about a cardigan
as I brace for the bumpy bridge
where two deer once startled me.
I wonder how long I’ll sit
at 47 today. And which car
will miss the quick green light,
forcing me to endure another red.
After that one close call, I cruise
at exactly 45 in Montgomery
until finally, waves of yellow
flood Orchard and Prairie.
DEAR BODY
Samantha Albright
I’m sorry for the scars
I implicitly created.
My wrists and thighs
Will never forget
The razor blades that punctured
My precious skin
You gave me as protection.
I’m sorry for the pills,
The alcohol, the drugs
Used to fill an emotional
Void—it’s not your fault.
I’m sorry for the tears shed
As I stood in the mirror,
Why am I not like her?
I silently screamed at
Stretch marks and cellulite and birthmarks.
At acne and rolls of food I love
That make an appearance
In my size of jeans.
I’m sorry for pushing you so hard
To try and become
Someone you’re not.
For days with no fuel.
It was only fair you gave me
Migraines as punishment.
Forgive me, please
As I have learned to love
You for your imperfections,
Appreciate your constant
Battle to keep me alive.
I am not me without you.
Forgive me for hurting you,
For screaming at you,
For blaming you.
I promise to do better
For as long as we have together.
DOORS
Dalin Johnson
I ran to the end of the hallway and locked the door,
Hiding from dirty dishes, stale cereal, and milk I would have closed,
only to stumble on the clock that fell off the baby pink walls.
I climbed over piles of toys and into our bunk bed to hide
when Mom knocked. “The girls have to clean. Don’t leave the door closed.”
I walked to the bathroom where the door didn’t have to be opened.
With four younger siblings, it was my favorite and only place to hide
from the whining orchestra. I wondered when I’d get my promised room.
While the purple paint was drying, I slept with the windows open
on an air mattress in the middle of the room. The wind howled and whined,
and I could see my neighbors watching TV in their living room.
I pulled the blankets up to my eyes, hoping the front door had been locked.
Most mornings, I stare at the dried purple. Only our dog whines
from her pillow that sits on the floor against the living room walls.
I leave for school when everyone sleeps, the door behind me unlocked.
The whole neighborhood echoes when I try not to slam my car’s door.
FACE FACTS
Nolan Thilk
The truth is,
This world is a grenade going off,
Shrapnel flying in every direction,
Fire leaping out and scorching
Everything around it.
It’s a mushroom cloud rising up
From an atomic explosion,
Engulfing everything in its proximity
In smoke, in ash, in toxic fear,
And in darkness.
But her face…
Her face is like a grenade
Becoming whole again,
The pieces of metal coming
Back together into one
Shining, harmless object.
It’s like an explosion
Being played in reverse,
The death, destruction, and disaster
Getting put back in the box, being
Undone, having never been there at all.
For a brief moment, her face
Seems to turn back the tides
Of chaos that seem, nowadays,
To be crashing upon the shores
Of my beach every single second
Of every single day.
If only I could see her face more clearly
Through the haze of the mushroom cloud.
FATHER TIME
Nathan Yockey
Bare bottom Xtra-Tuff boots squeak deer lily leaves.
Cheeses of baby toothed smiles
Turned to rosy cheeks and temper tantrums
Good thing Mom doesn’t know what it’s like up here.
Dad sits in the shadow of a Sitka Spruce,
Tucked tightly next to old Gatorades, stored in the moss
For emergencies and oversights.
Hands folded, chin to the sunrise creeping up the canopy,
Peeking now and again, as I crawl and claw.
He’s careful not to get caught waiting.
My boots grow and the gap between us fades.
He steps aside, I zig-zag off the trail and climb
Up out of sight, just to tumble down passed
Over logs, through brush, into the mud, trip after trip.
“It’s not about how far you go, it’s about how much you can see,”
Echoes up the trail. I tumble gracefully,
go around the brush, and over the mud.
I tuck myself into our spruce
And pull encroaching moss off emergency bottles,
Hands folded, chin to the sunrise creeping up the canopy.
Peeking now and again, he crawls and cusses.
I’m careful not to get caught waiting
Until I look back and he’s
not there.
And I tuck myself in, and wait for another pair
Of bare bottom Xtra-Tuff boots
Squeaking through deer lily leaves and another
Baby-toothed smile
Turned to rosy cheeks and temper tantrums.
Good thing mom doesn’t know what it’s like up here.
FIRE AND WAX
Samantha Albright
The flickering of a candle—
A wick burning to its core;
The internal battle
Has become a great war.
The wax melts and begins to deplete
Every time a burst of flame hits its wick
The war becomes too hot, too damaging to beat.
Wax can never compete with a lighter click.
Humanity is too much like wax—
We begin to melt at our core
And allow depletion to fill the cracks;
We sit on the mantle as decor.
This is a war we must learn to fight,
But first, the wax and the fire must unite.
FIRST SNOW
Madeline Laffey
A sleek smell of evergreen,
Coarse laughter in the distance,
A charcoal grey sky,
The town lay still and peaceful.
A cool breeze stings my skin,
Making my hair stand on edge.
An exaggerated calmness,
Closes down around me.
The first flake slowly fell,
Landing on my sweater,
Quickly soaking into the fabric.
Disappearing as fast as it came.
The colorless grass,
Now turns a sparkling white.
Halting the green growth,
And commencing winters start.
HAPPILY EVER AFTER
Anonymous
Our emotions tell a story.
Some with no end,
Some with a long beginning,
Or with many pauses.
It flows out inevitably into our life,
Oozing with sadness and tears,
Clashing with fear and insecurities,
Slamming with anger,
Shining with hope,
Compiling into a heaping mess that may never end.
A happily ever after,
A wish upon a star,
That may come if you’re patient enough.
HIBERNATION
Ashley Sanders
Hibernation
A squirrel sleeps
In the middle of the road
HIDDEN PAIN
Madeline Laffey
Tears roll down her plump blossom cheeks, falling
Into the soil so heavily it shakes the ground.
Creased lines like valleys trace her face,
The result of a frown that never curved up.
Each night she prayed she wouldn’t slip into the dark
And each day her grasp became weaker.
Her mother never noticed her smile getting weaker.
Her father didn’t recognize that her grades were falling.
Her sister failed to see her sobbing in the dark.
Her brother hadn’t made sure she stood her ground.
Her boyfriend didn’t care when she needed cheering up.
I never saw the pain through her stone cold face.
Not everyone can see how hard life is to face,
So they all saw her strength and saw themselves as weaker,
When she was feeling down they saw her as stuck up.
Perception kept them from seeing her falling
Into that deep abyss in her mind, sinking her into the ground.
She’d imagine her future but now all she saw was the dark.
Each morning she’d sulk in the mirror and cover the dark
Circles that hung under her eyes taking up half of her face.
Dirty clothes and crumpled wrappers flooded the ground.
The inability to get up confirmed her limbs were even weaker
than her brain. With each clump of hair that started falling,
She knew that her mind and body had agreed on giving up.
The pills acted quick as her parents tried to make her throw up.
As she went out, she feared that the end of the tunnel would be dark.
Each attempt at trying to wake her up resulted in her falling
Back into unconsciousness. A shade of blue took over the fear on her face.
Her body now cold and limp, somehow she didn’t look any weaker.
Her mother lay next to her body weeping into the ground.
The casket lowered slowly into the firm ground.
Tears trickled into the soil joining her as her loved ones looked up
At the sky, hoping she was looking down. They finally saw how weak her
Mind must have been to leave them all helpless in the dark.
No explanation other than a lifeless body and pale face.
How can you catch someone if you don’t know they’re falling?
HOME
Anonymous
I never truly knew where my home was,
Or where I belonged,
My body never felt mine
My emotions always controlled me
My mind always a mess
My family against my vulnerability,
but coddled me.
But they love me.
Yet I never felt at home.
No matter how fast I ran,
No matter how loud I was,
No matter how hard I looked
I still did not find my home.
What does home feel like?
HOUSE
Nolan Thilk
Drove past the old place yesterday.
The garage door was opened, insensitively
displaying the two cars parked inside that
were not ours. It made me sad,
finally realizing that the place we
shared so many cozy meals and warm hugs
and tense greetings and relieving goodbyes
in was now someplace we would never
go back to again. But I suppose at this
new place, we are the ones with the new
cars rudely parked in the garage,
the ones who our predecessors
drive past sometimes and say
“That was us once” as they
try not to cry, thinking about the
fragile, fading memories of their own
shared meals and shouting matches and
happy tears and sad kisses that we are
treading on and trampling, stepping on and
smashing, every time we take a step.
We are, all of us, always, both the victims
and the victimizers. We would do well to
remember that fact, before we drown
ourselves in nostalgic self-pity.
MY MOTHER, MY HERO
Mariana Sifuentes
I was comfortably seated in my mother’s passenger seat.
While the car was in motion, I turned to my right and spotted that hospital building.
Immediately all these flashbacks arose.
Four years ago my mother and father dropped me off in that mental hospital,
twelve miles away from home.
Ten days away from those I love the most felt more like ten years.
At dinner time, I missed my mother’s delectable enchiladas.
At night I missed my cozy and soft bed,
the lights hanging around my room,
and my family photos taped on my walls.
As well as my mother’s goodnight kisses.
Every night I talked to her on the phone, I held back my tears
and I prayed that the day would come
when I would see her again.
Why was I at a mental hospital, you may ask?
For so long I struggled with my mental health.
For months I was depressed and felt worthless.
I knew it was bad when I woke up in the mornings,
and the only thing I looked forward to was going back to bed.
Every day was a constant battle, and I was tired of feeling hopeless.
My mother loved me so much,
and seeing me depressed, broke her too.
She did the impossible to get me out of that dark hole I was in.
With tears in her eyes, she left me for ten days in an unknown place.
We both knew it was for my own good though.
She saved me from my dark and obscure thoughts.
Today, I thank her for seeking me the professional help I needed.
For showing me her unconditional love and support.
For loving me the days I could not love myself.
For sticking by my side when I needed her the most.
She is the reason, four years later I am still here.
She is my hero.
ON SATURDAY
Asher Leahy
Outside, the sun is going down
I turn on a light in the kitchen
to balance it out
Every time we have spaghetti
I remember when Eric told me to always give T an apron,
since he makes a mess when eating.
and every time I watch
as my clumsy hands
leave strands too long on the fork
and fling sauce onto his apron.
We’re sharing music
over this bowl of spaghetti.
My phone speakers hum and the tendrils
of sound seep into the ceiling's high corners.
ON SUNDAY
Asher Leahy
Wash the dirt off the eggplants
A ladle in the lemonade –
Percolator
Dripping
And dinner, once destined for the dumpster,
now crated and carried to our cars –
Purple daikons break through
the bottom of a box
spilling against the curb,
asphalt, grass, and radish.
We laugh and laugh,
too much love to carry.
PEACH TREE
Claudia Cardenas
The peach tree that once sat tall outside our backyard,
That would turn bright orangey-red every late July,
From the sweet savory juice that filled our mouths with joy,
Held a pathway to memories,
From the picking high above,
The cleaning that would fall below,
The neighbors stealing to get a piece,
It all united us,
It made neighbors turn into friends,
To sharing with family members that we wouldn’t normally see,
Its roots stayed strong every other July for us to enjoy its riches,
Till one July came that no longer brought its branches to rise,
Instead- they fell to a sad sigh,
No longer did it bring much value as it was rotting from inside,
The bright orangey-red was not to return,
There was no picking high above,
Or much cleaning that would leave us drenched,
And even the neighbors became a little sour,
The family members maintained their distance,
The roots had dried up,
The peach tree that gave us lifetime memories,
Had been sliced into pieces.
PLACES I NEVER BEEN
La'Quisha Smith
Places I never been
Somethings never change
Life seems what it is
But it’s alright I’ll never change
Been through so much
Can’t believe I survived
Taking a chance in life
How do you compete in life?
Wanting so many things
Will my time ever arrive?
This has been a wild ride
All I know how to do is hold on tight
If I could say one thing I’ll say
God is always on my side
The biggest lesson of it all is
Look back and say to yourself it was
Never a failure, but always a lesson
SAILING AWAY
Angela Cabalang
The rocking of our boat began
the sweet lullaby of our inevitable death.
We watched as the blue monster raised its
unmerciful hand towards us, another one of its victims.
Who gave this being so much power…
and us so little?
If only this were a story of David and Goliath.
Peculiar how we turn to such fairy tales during times like these,
as if we had never sailed away.
We turn our gaze towards the planned destination
sitting atop the mountain, taunting us—
the royal throne consuming our final thoughts to the end.
Unsure if the salty taste comes from the beast or defeat or both.
No compass could have predicted the direction we are about to head,
only He who sits on the Throne above could’ve known:
we should’ve listened.
SATURDAY EVENING PLANS
Ashley Sanders
Scrolling through the movies
On Netflix has become a game.
It even sparked the interest of the cat,
Eyes scan left to right like reading a book.
A million choices for any person
To pick and choose if she agrees
On a particular, flashy title or agrees
To give a chance on a bottom-row movie
Detailing a documentary on a random person.
At this point in the every-Saturday-evening game,
A TV episode or an eighth of a book
Would be watched and read while the cat
Preened herself and the other two cats.
Titles grow increasingly familiar, and I agree
To search for just ten more minutes, and the book
On my nightstand stays untouched. Movies
Repeat and this redundant game
Will take any Saturday-evening person
And morph her into a Monday-morning person.
The bed embraces all three cats
Who wait for the scurrying mouse game
To appear on the tablet. I finally agree
Between the same two movies
Before reaching over the book,
Enveloping in darkness. The book
Encapsulates a story for any person
Who dares to choose it over the same few movies.
Sniffing and pawing at the pages, the cats
Read more than the endlessly scrolling human and agree
To continue this page-turning game
If only the human would stop her cyclic game.
The same two movies or a brand new book
Should not be a debate, disagree or agree.
Scroll, flip. Scroll, flip. Scroll, flip. A person
Must decide which is more harmonious as the cats’
Meows and purrs echo like a surround-sound movie.
If there is a game to be played, a person
Must grab a book and her cats
And agree to turn off the same-old movies.
SESTINA Inspired by the Album
“The Downward Spiral” by Nine Inch Nails
Zach Ramsdell
I did all the right things, writing down words like Closer,
Ruiner, Becoming, Spiral, Hurt, and Destruct - words torn
From the back of a nihilistic album with themes of self-
Abuse and self-destruction, themes present in November
Air, carried on wind like waves of sound, drowning
Notes of vanilla and cinnamon in undertows of rotting death.
Yes, I did all the right things, and unsurprisingly, death
Becomes me, becomes the only thing present, closing
In on everything I’ve loved and protected - suffocating, drowning.
It isn’t enough to simply want something, to think I can tear
Myself apart and build myself up again, like every November
Brings an opportunity for renewal, rebirth – to reinvent yourself.
Is it because the leaves change that I, too, think I can change myself?
Is it because winter, the great equalizer, sparks the fear of death
In the heart of every living thing, so that in November
We see fires blaze in hearths of homes with shutters closed
And doors locked to keep the wind from tearing
Clothing from flesh, flesh from bone? Howling winds drown
The sounds of the record whose songs depict the drowning
Of a man in a downward spiral, a man caught in the great self-
Absorbance that is self-abuse and self-destruction, a man torn
Between addiction and recovery, a man neither dead
Nor in the spring of his life – but a man who in becoming closer
To God has become as far away from himself as May is to November.
Am I surprised? Am I shocked to behold a morning in November
In which fears are awakened, in which thoughts of the drowned
Rise towards the surface from a great below – where closure,
The boarded-up recesses of emotions no longer to be self-
Assessed, self-accessible, seems impossible due to threats of death
Carried in metaphors on November winds through thoughts torn?
No, no I am not surprised, for it is I who tore
The words from the title tracks on the album that last November
Carried me through a winter darker than known to any man but Death.
It is I who, like the man battling the urge to self-destruct, to drown
In self-control, allows the sounds to wash over my body, bathing myself
In a downward spiral of doubt and regret, bringing myself closer.
From the depths I’ve been torn of an ocean where I drowned
In waves blown on November wind, but I am not yet myself
Nearer to God than I am to death - I am not yet any closer.
SUNSET
Mariana Sifuentes
I stand motionless,
reaching out with my eyes.
My God your creations are divine.
The serenity of the evening,
when day’s sun sets,
is my favorite time of the day.
Every night
the horizon glows with
swirls of pink and orange.
That fade to blue and purple.
Its aftermath continues to paint the sky
with billows of color that dance
in the calm of the evening.
I see the shadows of the passing robin
as I sit in the warm lawn
staring up at the sky.
Rose, coral, and violet
blend well together and
I feel at ease.
TEAR IN MY BASKETBALL SHOE
Angela Cabalang
There’s a tear in my basketball shoe—
right above the inner ankle,
as the fabric frays, the mesh displays,
the sole burnt out.
Should I buy new shoes?
Or continue to wear these down?
Is it time to hang the laces up
once and for all?
I could learn to play that instrument write that novel go to that party act in that play live in that city become someone else.
I’m gonna do it.
I’m gonna do it.
I’m gonna do it.
But then a tear trickles down my face,
as the flood of memories come crashing in:
of driveway pickup games on a broken nine-and-a-half foot hoop,
where siblings played for who got dishes.
of the unending practices in suffocating heat,
where friendships were forged.
of championship games with packed gymnasiums,
where we fought as knights in battle and came out victorious.
I rub my thumb over the scar’s indentation.
The tear happened years ago, yet I remember the pain as though the accident was yesterday.
I hurt and bleed for this stupid game!
But then I flick my wrist… back in my natural habitat.
Dopamine coursing through my veins as I hear the clean swish of the net,
animalistic adrenaline with every bounce on the hardwood floor.
Yes Yes
Yes
and just like that, my love is rebirthed like a phoenix—
flaming passion consuming me,
an inextinguishable blaze,
No tears will put out this fire.
THAT NIGHT
Meghan Kenny
I couldn’t breathe.
I could taste you for hours after,
A sweet spearmint lasting on my tongue
No matter how many times
I bathed my mouth in toothpaste,
I couldn’t scrub away the flavor of
Jack from my lips
The trail of your kiss stained my neck,
Your footsteps left an ink trail
From the bed to the door.
Although your body had to part,
The Monarchs in my stomach had not.
The bruises you left
Stained my upper thighs like
Tattoos I never asked for.
Purple and burgundy polka dots,
Marking the placement of your hands and knees.
Although the bruises may fade,
The damage cannot be undone.
I’ll always remember that night.
We tangled our limbs in the sheets.
Two bodies and silk had created star dust.
We belonged to each other.
The stiff sheets tightened around my legs.
Your fingers became twist ties on my wrists.
My body was not mine.
That night, I was prisoner to him.
You had me floating on clouds.
Euphoria wrapped her arms around
My trembling shoulders.
I found safety in him
And the blissful way
He made me feel.
I will never forget you.
I’d never been skydiving before.
But that night,
The night you didn’t take no for an answer,
I was free falling without a parachute.
You became my greatest fear.
You are my beautiful nostalgia.
You are my gravest memory.
THE CIRCLE OF BENCHES NEXT TO ECKHART HALL
Ashley Sanders
A pizza pie
Cut into six slices.
One slice serves as an entrance,
The five others’ crusts are raised as benches.
Leaves and sticks make up
Toppings and bushels of marigolds ooze
Out of the benches like cheese.
A small pillar keeps the box
From sticking to the top of the cement circle.
Delivery is unavailable.
THE THIEF OF DIGNITY
Samantha Albright
You’re the ultimate thief.
My identity, my drive, my humanity
Extracted from my frail skin
When you tore my clothes
And wore my silence as consent.
A complete state of shock
My throat closed in self-defense,
Too scared to scream, to say no.
Somehow you broke through
Walls my body built to defend
Against you, I’m too afraid, too weak
To fight you off, so I lay still
In the silence you created,
Encompassed by your grunts and breathing
Until you finished
Stealing my dignity.
UNWELCOME COMPANY
Dalin Johnson
I’ve held the door for the girl
with the striped bedspread,
parked next to the boy
with the slanted ceilings,
and climbed the stairs by the one
named “iPhone.”
I’ve eavesdropped on the professor
with the guitar on her wall,
ordered coffee with the one
who has noisy neighbors,
and shared the elevator with the one
who could never share her screen.
I’m the girl who has purple walls
with a gray stripe I chose in eighth grade.
The girl with the twin bed I made
just before my visitors arrived.
And the desk chair I positioned
just in front of my high school art final.
Most haven’t seen my nose ring or crooked teeth,
and some still can’t even pronounce my name.
But I’ve done group work in their kitchen,
and we’ve watched Ted Talks in my bedroom.
But we still hide our faces.
We still keep our distance.
VILLANOIR
Nolan Thilk
Betrayal stings, but he can understand
why she did it—she had no other choice.
Everyone has to look out for themselves.
The bullet rips through him slowly—as it does,
he thinks of all the good times that they shared…
Betrayal stings, but still, he understands
that she had a good reason: if she hadn’t
shot him, he likely would have shot her, and
everyone has to look out for themselves.
He still loves her, though, even as he breathes
his final breaths, brought on simply by her greed.
Betrayal stings. But he still understands
there was no alternative, no future
where they ran away, loved each other endlessly.
Everyone has to look out for themselves.
She ran off with the money, God bless her,
and left him bleeding out in his own living room.
Betrayal stings, but he still understands
that everyone must look out for themselves.
WEAR YOUR CROWN
Angela Cabalang
Wear your crown with pride,
for it is in your name.
Flare your gill covers,
make known your presence,
don’t hide your authentic colors.
Mark your territory.
Eat protein. Stay strong.
You are a fighter by blood.
At times you may feel
lonely isolated within your solitary tank,
wondering if anyone can look past your aggressive exterior
and see the terrified creature underneath.
Give up the throne.
Sacrifice the crown for connection—
Slay those demons!
What rests on your head is not merely a birthright,
but an identity built from battle.
Worthy shall stay.
Own it. Embrace it.
Wear your crown with pride.
WHERE I'M FROM
Vanessa Ahautl
I am from the baby-blue house at the corner of the street.
From the willow tree and its strong, impassive roots.
Hanging, pulling, and swinging.
I am from the weekend barbecues.
From the grilled onions.
Burnt, fading-white lollipops that were not tasteful.
And will never be tasteful.
I am from the growing Cilantro in the backyard and its neighbor, Papalo.
From the citrus of the lemon and its herbal aroma.
I am from the yells of frustration and love.
“¡Vente a la casa, ya es noche!”
I am from my grandmother.
Elia, her honey-like voice, and gentle smile.
Her caramel soft skin.
Her big, round eyes.
On my chest, a scar is left.
A weak, wooden stick is lost.
The grass in the front yard remembers my tears, blood and sweat.
I am from Comanche Lane.
I am from the last glance of the baby-blue house.
WHO ARE YOU?
La'Quisha Smith
Strong silent type
Heavenly peacefully distantly
Who are you?
Chilly day over a dark moon
Who are you?
A twilight that shines in front of you
A narrow distant as I approach you
A sensation feels of a misty blue
Who are you?
Uncertain till you finally knew
Who are you?
Like a lost girl who cries for days
Who are you?
Who are you?
Cause I saw you with my eyes
Forever memory gone in fade, Like a heartbreak on a rainy day
Come back if you just only just knew
Who are you?
Who are you?
WITNESS TO A GRIEVING MOTHER
Zach Ramsdell
I saw you bleed from wounds unhealed,
the space between the gap yet sealed
in her absence. When she left you
pinned to this earth, beneath blue
skies now stained black with time, yielding
to those willing to pierce your shield
of defense, she left you stripped, peeled
away, less than whole, no more two,
I saw you bleed.
Death unmasked is life no more heeled
by the threat of it, so you wield
the sword high above and strike true,
splitting what’s left of you in two.
I saw you bleed.