On having a shape but finding it too

By Charlie Black

I think it has to do with air

color has pedagogies
but shape is open

open

open

open your mind to EXPLOSION
open your mind to space and molecule and philote
open to expansion
to tessellation
to fractals
to spaces

filled and unfilled

Shape is space

or a reaction to space or the relation of space

to space

I am drawn to open spacein
6th grade I could not resist an open field

still can’t

want to spin and fall and roll
scrape elbows and knees

bloody me up

grass in mouth and shirt

masochistic itch

dirt mingle sweat

create HEAT create ENERGY
energy begets energy

warm aura expounding
if I get hot enough could I glow

space becoming light

shape becoming

The Skandhas

By Anson Wang

When a person falls out of love with someone, do they cease to exist? Yes, they shed into a new existence, a new self.

The children are making their own adjustments

Cynicism tapered back down to a blankness

Just by being present,

They’ve made me forget my own indictments

And now, I’m only afraid that we’re all a bit too blank

Even when we aren’t, because it’s what we once were

And all we can pretend to be is what we find

Stuck to ourselves, like an advertisement slid under the door

Giving in to depths we’re not responsible for

_

They write and write and fill in the blanks and do what’s asked

And sometimes more, this one is blooming beyond what she can even comprehend

I wonder what comprehension would do for her

Would she cash out early?

Has she even learned to think in terms of cash?

The enduring self is an enveloping of the person’s skandhas. It is a perception of all a person’s constituents. 

The eye can’t see itself, the tongue can’t taste itself

Can skin touch itself?

I’m not sure that I can perceive myself

My only experience is what gets fed to me

I process it all and then log it, in the center behind my eyes

Have I even seen myself? I’m not so sure I exist

All I’m composed of is getting to the next thing,

But when I think I’ve got it

It disintegrates in my hands.

just like heaven

By Charlie Black

i think my hips might be trapped within my mattress

i think i started to sink

and phased through the top layers by mistake

topographical love

pushing upwards

in discs and planes

and i guess now we’re in a realm of colored pencil plateaus

and i wonder how often you think about me

and i wonder if things are going to go back

i imagine a dreamscape replica of my school

only it's not a replica but its still my school

i walk past suites that are endless expanses behind doors 

that should probably be closed 

and find myself in a lavish room filled with so many vases and everything is blue and green and velvet 

and it was like heaven

like when the leaves are all the shades of leather

like limerence

like the want just bleeds into the air

like it should be illegal the way i wanted to touch your skin

electricity percolating

entropy takes hold

energy does not rearrange itself like matter does

but everything needs it

all the time

my therapist says 

there are a lot of sweet people out there that you cannot morph yourself into to provide what they 

need

i think it fizzles out eventually

i think it has to

String in a Pocket

By Sam Ferland

There is a string in your pocket
With lint among other things
There the same way anything gets anywhere
It happens, happened, is yet too,
Different from a current
on the river bed we watch it 
There was a naked person who jumped in 
A red sign said not too
as well as the teacher
One that taught what matters – 
A spark in your mind follow it 
into a pocket
Next to the lint
from the scrape of a cramped hand
rubbing off
dark shades of fabric
Accumulating 
reaching downwards a hole
walking towards
the dull pencil told to sharpen,
that never did it’s hard to see 
through the trees –
The situation of walking or not it happens to us
The space between a trailhead
and the car
The person who jumped in the current 
is there I couldn’t say 
where their string is now

Womanhood

By Caroline Schwartzbeck

Why is it that so many shoes look like knives?
Pointy, unnatural, inhuman
and presentable, according to the department store employee
who insists it's bad enough that you won't consider heels.
Look past the inhumanness and you can see, for an instant, what she does;
sleekness. Beauty.

But underneath beauty lies hunger,
not peckish musings but bloody hunger.
Stomach growling, teeth gnawing,
this shoe, no, this knife, is a predator on the horizon
slinking closer, flaunting itself.
You've fallen into its trap the moment you look and think
just how fashionable it would appear
with its jaws around your ankle.

Fall into the trap. Slide it on and regret it,
stumble-run down the aisle because you might as well give it a try,
but you cannot flee an enemy that's already twisting into you.
You can only fight it as it whispers in your ear
in the language of pain
saying, Sit down. You know it hurts too much to walk like this.
Sit down. It's not your place to be up and about.
You made this bargain with your unfortunate birth.
Now hold up your end of it. Sit down.

A decision lies before you now.
You can give into its agonizing demands,
take a seat and let the others do the doing.
Or you can pry the thing away from you
and stand, bare and proud.
Why is it that so many knives look like shoes?

SANTA INQUISICIÓN / HOLY INQUISITION

By Johann Klassen

SANTA INQUISICIÓN 

Me arrastro por la niebla de un futuro que me
consume. El eco del juicio 
se quema en mi garganta, y la piel se hace carne, 
se hace sombra, 
se hace grito. 

Santa Inquisición, 
¿dónde está mi alma? 
Soy solo un reflejo 
en tus ojos rotos. 
Arráncame el miedo, 
pero no la fe. 
Mi cuerpo es el altar, 
mi dolor, el sacrificio. 

El peso del silencio 
cae como un golpe de plomo, y el cielo se
hunde 
en mis venas, 
corren ríos de fuego 
en mi pecho desnudo. 
No hay redención 
cuando la culpa es un perfume que no se puede escapar.

Santa Inquisición, 
¿dónde está mi alma? 
Soy solo un reflejo 
en tus ojos rotos. 
Arráncame el miedo, 
pero no la fe. 
Mi cuerpo es el altar, 
mi dolor, el sacrificio. 

La carne se disuelve 
en la voz de un dios moribundo. Todo lo que fui, 
todo lo que seré, 
se pierde en la niebla de tu condena. 

Santa Inquisición, 
me abrazas y me destruyes. Soy el cordero, 
soy el fuego, 
no sé si morir 
o renacer en tu olvido 

HOLY INQUISITION 

I crawl through the fog 
of a future that consumes me. The echo of judgment 
burns in my throat, 
and my skin becomes flesh,
becomes shadow, 
becomes a scream. 

Holy Inquisition, 
where is my soul? 
I am only a reflection 
in your broken eyes. 
Tear away my fear, 
but not my faith. 
My body is the altar, 
my pain, the sacrifice. 

The weight of silence 
falls like a leaden blow, 
and the sky sinks 
into my veins. 
Rivers of fire run 
through my bare chest. 
There is no redemption 
when guilt is a perfume 
you cannot escape. 

Holy Inquisition, 
where is my soul? 
I am only a reflection 
in your broken eyes. 
Tear away my fear, 
but not my faith. 
My body is the altar, 
my pain, the sacrifice. 

The flesh dissolves 
in the voice of a dying god. 
All that I was, 
all that I will be, 
is lost in the fog of your condemnation. 

Holy Inquisition, 
you embrace me and destroy me.
I am the lamb, 
I am the fire, 
I do not know whether to die or be reborn in your oblivion.

a paradoxical warmth

By Caroline Schwartzbeck

the snowflakes drifting
soothe my aches
with their soft presence
and chillness pristine
their much-needed quiet
washing over me like a ripple
to a mere grain of sand
if only for a fleeting day
i trip on air and fall into 
a paradoxical warmth
that stings of youthful excitement
not so long gone 
of surprise freedom
sledding downhill like a whirlwind
and crackling fire on brick
hot chocolate with whipped cream
eventually exchanged for
muted cameras
and dull bliss
stolen glances away from the screen of the laptop
and to the screen of the window
where i can almost touch
yearn to embrace
the drifting snowflakes

Black Water

By Emily Clairmont

Inky pitch surrounds me
soft like satin
bending like cotton
suffocating to look at

I step into the water
a reflection of my soul
as imperfect and burdened
as my physical being

It envelops my body
as waterlogged wool
submerges muscle
tendon and bone
and as water returns to water 
I find a shade staring back

Transfixed I do nothing 
as the water rises
and two become one

The news that night says
“Another has drowned in Pitch Lake…”

Entomophily

By Emma Keany

the closeness of a pollinating bee
finding herself deep, gentle, sweet-smelling
too much honey leaves our mouths dry
hungry for more, so we tear at it
don’t care if we’re stung
you can coat my wounds in your tongue’s nectar
find sugar in the folds of my flesh

does the bee want the flower?
does the flower want the bee?

mutualistic symbiosis: when both desires are fulfilled
the bee, fat and happy and lonely
the flower, soft and glowing and alone
the perfection of their union touted by nature herself
orchids calling to an extinct lover
a monogamy created by evolution

but wasps are pollinators, too.

In Place of Identity

Emma Keany

I have:
A few stray words—
Sitto, jiddo, sahha, kaak bi halib.
A single recipe I eat every morning.
A few stray hand-me-downs—
A golden cross I never wear, a stuffed bear, a plush snake.
My nose, my leg hair, my bad attitude.
A few stray memories—
A blurry fireplace, a house in the snow, a dusty garage.
The smell of my aunt’s house.
A few stray connections—
A piece of wordplay, an occasional jolt of recognition, a distant mourning.
The familiar sound of lesbian, the similar face we wear, the similar tears we shed.

Is it enough to identify? Is it enough to speak with my father’s family a few times a year? Is it enough to love them from a distance? Is it enough to see a banquet of song and dance and recognize my nose, my brows, my sideburns? Is it enough to see my father’s face in a martyr’s and feel I could cry? Is it enough to bake? Is it enough to butcher my few words? Is it enough to stay where I am?

What a filthy walk

By Sam Ferland

Sometimes I climb up a tree and find that my hands get covered in bird-shit and sap 
I can’t clean it off so I just leave it there
When it starts to rain I take a shower and use the shit-sap as shampoo
Shower with shit-sap shampoo
Shit-sap shampoo shower
Shower-shit, shampoo sap
Shower, sap-shampoo … shit
1. Shit 2. shower 3. shampoo 4. zap
That’s when the lightning strikes and the tree sets a-blaze
A torch in the storm growing and breathing 
The rain is a mere breath in the winter
The wind is a monster paying the trees their debt 
Pushing the acorns into the dirt to be reborn one day
And I am a human

Watching on with nothing to do but stand with shit and sap in my hair
How typical

Candled Soul

By Emily Clairmont

A spark catches on the wick
and it grows as the heat travels down
and the air caresses the small flame
until it is stoked into a roaring blaze
that dances its shadows across the walls 
reaching for the ceiling
limited only by the wax its attached to

The accompanying scent of sandalwood
mimics that which followed you to Heaven 
as your flame grew above the
safe confines of the tempered glass
and was snuffed out

glass-bound

By Erin Winship

in front of me a blue abyss
quiet tranquil
anemones their delicate arms waving
beckoning
putting on a show with 
their vibrant and prismatic colors 
fish dashing scales glittering 
like jewels in sunlight
each species has a role in their
elaborate ballet 
clear water magic dancing
my mesmerized eyes       meet the manta’s smiling nostrils
as she gracefully glides past
wings gently moving her 
forward
if i lean in and look up
  i can see an old sea turtle
she takes her time
traversing
from
one side to another
of the tank
it’s as though they have their 
own language
just them and the the gentle motion of water
swirling and twirling around
eachother
circling this big loop
that they call home
do they know?
that they’re sentenced to stay here
g l a s s b o u n d 
until they die
they will never see the sea
do they know?
there’s no point in brushing away the tears on my cheeks
they’d only be replaced with more

Soundings

By Jacqueline Modungo

Is this tranquility?

I laughed to myself through the reverberations in a way that no one could hear me, and for a few minutes I stopped believing there was always someone on the outskirts of my field of vision. There is something so poisoning about sound, about how you don’t hear it, about how you taste it, about how it takes you all at once. And so I save it for a rainy day. It was November when I reconvened, or at the very least, it was one of the -embers. Someone kept putting back the leaves so that we could watch them fall. They must have heard me complain that it was all over too soon. I didn’t question the lack of need for a jacket, but there were times when I almost wanted to pull the cold back over myself so that I had a reason to withdraw. But there I was, on who knows how many of the last adirondack afternoons when the sun hadn’t been cut from its string, waiting for the floor to fall through.

Eyes Glazed Over the Screen (A Failed Economics Paper)

By Jacqueline Modungo

Fingers poised over the keys and they stumble on the poison of staying up until 3:18 each night just to “get time back” in the day, half freedom half flimsy punishment for everything I decide to delay eyes glazed over the screen and suddenly I imagine confections, confessions, and lips I have never kissed and lips I’ll never kiss again . I was born to scribble in the margins and I’ll be paid to study economics after trying to reinvent the wheel after running away from it after having it run over me and I’ll tell you another secret- I just like listening to the press of the keys, like any good american I can’t stand more than six seconds of silence so I fill it all with gentle observation like the oil from my fingers smudged over a phone camera lens like the empty can of high noon you walk past everyday at two pm like the bird nests you don’t realize are high rises like the cursor that blinks on the screen, begging you to keep going but will wait with you anyway; my hands are still poised over pages that haven’t been born but really I have set them down for a destination without work, time, or sets of 2,500 word counts, in between the pursuit of folding a thousand paper cranes, and they have settled somewhere where we work and rest with dignity, and they have settled somewhere where we take turns making each other cups of tea

The Ghost

By Anson Wang

Time is in passing, notice the way it seeps and drips
Never quicker than it should, I wonder why 
We are shocked seeing its accumulation Perhaps it’s the proof
Of what we’ve already forgotten Or perhaps the time was more
Precious than realized But Truthfully, I’m caught
Valuing everything before and after it passes Perhaps it is the present
That doesn’t exist at all.

I wanted to be yours when I wanted to be good
I wanted to make you proud
It seems I want too much, I want everything I’ve ever dreamed
Even if my dreams will hollow me one day Such is the streak
That runs through me: I’m falling off this world
And I wanted to save you By becoming yours
To catch myself in Your Life and
Follow you out wherever you’re going I am
Never failing to find What I already know here
Under every layer I probe into
Even at their Depths
It’s like decimals, the further you go
The less significant it all is
But now, You’re in my way
And I’m marching straight through you
I know this feeling, I’ve been here before
If you are still intact in the end Who was
The ghost?

When I’m up late at night
Getting lost in temporary ordeals 
This old feeling of wanting to read life
Before it happens, I can’t keep up the pace Anymore
Maybe it will be good To get away from this framing
Hundreds of miles ahead Maybe I’ll be wrapped up once again
In something Excruciating And this moment would
Be a chore to summon And I’d forget the living past
As something gratuitous.

The Seagull

By Coltrane McConigle

Regardless of the song in his head, 
The seagull pecks away. 
Regardless of the love in his heart 
The seagull pecks away. 
Instead of the beautiful sunset 
He pecks. 
Instead of the bluest ocean 
He pecks. 
Pecking at the brain, 
The man washes away. 
And so he pecks. 
And pecks. And pecks.

TWICE MINDED

By Jameson Gillihan

I put things off again last night
the countertop flour trail
crusty forks water-bogged rice maggoting the drain slick-slop butcherbait or wo-
Somebody is in my kitchen.
Why is there another person
in my kitchen.

There’s a stranger scrubbing stovetop grease and meatstuff off the counter
Purging pink slime my slime get your fucking hands off my slime

To stop the stranger I plug my nose and plop my tongue on the cutting board
defiantly (I WILL DO THE CLEANING)
I lick pig juice from polyethylene

slurp

This does not deter the stranger,
who in fact seems almost compelled by the scene, this strange head slapping the counter
tongue flailing like an animal
that shits itself or sheds its limbs in panic, and what are you going to do about it? Are you really
just going to keep cleaning?

It was kind of a point of pride, seeing how dirty my kitchen could get.
I liked seeing smell become
tangible
I liked that I could affect the world in this way
I liked having irrefutable proof that there might be something wrong with me

So
you're kind of fucking up my everything
what you're doing right now

The stranger hums sniffles or shifts the way one does bored or uncomfortable.
The speaker realizes their position
primed like pork for carving
and I didn’t put the knives away last night
obviously

[

]

That’s the sound of nothing happening.
Despite being splayed wide and irresistible
I guess I’m not good enough for whoever is in my kitchen.
Something about me is just
unappetizing.

Are you really not interested in cutting me up?
Would you at least think about it
I imagine the look on your face
slicing strips of me
underwhelmingly 
all I can do is imagine
at some point you’ll succumb to the urge 
or my jaw will get tired

Would you succumb to the urge already

[

]

That’s still the sound of nothing happening
and still, nothing happens,
serrated sloshing rough-side sponge
silver-on-silver 
sink-soaked leftovers

The stranger says I don't have to take control of my body by hurting it
I can take control of my body
by taking care of it
So would you take your tongue
off the cutting board
please

The stranger puts the knives away

My jaw is getting tired

I saw you in someone else/Te vi en otra persona

By Johann Klassen

Te vi en otra persona

Te vi en otra persona, 
los mismos ojos que una vez me miraron con ternura,
los labios que sepultaban mis secretos, 
incluso esos pequeños bigotes que llevabas con orgullo. 

Eras tú, 
pero eras también un eco del pasado, 
la sombra de quien fuimos, 
cuando todo parecía posible. 

Recordé tu forma de caminar, 
las manos siempre escondidas en los bolsillos de tus pantalones, 
el suave abrazo de los suéteres que ocultaban tu cuerpo. 

Qué desgracia, 
mientras yo me perdía en el reflejo de un alma 
que se olvidó afeitarse, 
con el cabello revuelto, desaliñado como mis propios pensamientos. 
Y ahí estabas, frente a mí, 
pero eras otra persona, 
un recuerdo disfrazado en la piel de un extraño. 

La vergüenza me ahoga, 
saber que, a pesar del tiempo y las distancias, 
mis sentimientos no han encontrado paz. 
Hoy te vi en otra persona, 
y en el brillo de tus ojos, 
pude ver el eco de un amor que nunca apagó, 
un fuego que, a pesar de los años, 
sigue ardiendo en el rincón más oscuro de mi ser.

I saw you in someone else

I saw you in someone else, 
the same eyes that once gazed at me with tenderness, 
the lips that buried my secrets, 
even those little mustaches you wore with pride. 
It was you, 
but you were also an echo of the past, 
the shadow of who we once were, 
when everything seemed possible. 

I remembered the way you walked, 
hands always hidden in the pockets of your pants, 
the gentle embrace of sweaters that concealed your body. 
What a misfortune, 
while I got lost in the reflection of a soul 
that forgot to shave, 
with hair tousled, disheveled like my own thoughts. 

And there you were, in front of me, 
but you were someone else, 
a memory disguised in the skin of a stranger. 
Shame drowns me, 
knowing that, despite time and distance, 
my feelings have not found peace. 

Today I saw you in someone else, 
and in the shine of your eyes, 
I could see the echo of a love that never 
died, a fire that, despite the years, 
still burns in the darkest corner of my being.

I’ll Make You See God

By Violet Russell

Another strange tide 
approaches the horizon 
Sand slip time, the world’s 
Ends starts to tatter, 
Loose bits of light a 
Sad white flag, no 
One reads defeat as 
Righteous, taste that 
Shoe polish morning, 
Bared neck dew, let 
That sweat roll off 
And that’s where the 
Sea gets filled with salt, 
And god had no hand 
In this, nothing tilts 
The world even, or 
Shakes the globe flat, 
I’ll make you see god, 
And it’s just this misery 
Misery misery.