The Leaves We Left Behind

By Jessie Mullen

Picked leaves hoping you’d love me.

It was never enough you see.

Unsure why I stopped picking leaves.

Perhaps the past was enough to keep.

To keep you

To keep our love

But it’s cold now and the leaves have withered.

We didn’t make it through winter.

At night wonder flows afore I fall asleep,

If the seasons stood still, would you still leave me?

The Lovers

By Taly Nudelman

hold me where I can’t see your arms
they have fled the frame and I
decided already I was going to trust fall

maybe when I feel my feet give out
the small of my back will suddenly grow
warm against the palm
of your hand
or
my body will catch itself
with the whipping back of a foot
and
the crack of a heel that
so desperately needed a break

don’t break your empty gaze

gather the skin on my face
and weave it into white linen
stitch it thickly
so that I no longer see

my dress and your suit
the only things that make coarse
the space between us

weave it with a softness that
dissolves my face
into the gray sky behind you

and to secure the end
pull it tight around your neck.

The Lovers II

By Taly Nudelman

find the coarse folds
under my tear ducts
and follow them down my cheek,
until
the linen grows sparse and weak
until
the white fades into your fingertips
and you hold lone threads;

grasp where the fabric of my skin
folds into yours and
lose your mind in the wrinkled abyss
between
our inward looking eyes;

do not be devastated by our affliction.
glance into the distance
and conjure a sunset or the scent
of sweet carnations that
have long ago disappeared
from my wrist;

look me in the eyes;
tell me you see me
and I’ll revel in your white-linen words.

Five Steps to Dying

By Sarah Flynn

1. Ignore It - The pain is temporary, the blood will go away when you stop looking at it
2. Obsess - Keep staring in the mirror, alone. Feel your eye going blind and poke at the wounds
3. Don’t Tell Him - Hide it, don’t let him see your weakness. You’re a fraud
4. Collapse - The blood is spreading everywhere, you can hide it no longer. Now everyone knows your shame
5. Pain - You can’t speak, he speaks for you. You never got to tell him how much he meant to you. Instead you silently weep as he puts you out of your misery like a dog.

Alice Und Mich

By Lindsay Ely

Diese Erinnerungen,
Ich erinnere mich.
Sie haben mich gelockt,
Mich einfangen in dieses Wunderland.
Es ist voll bis zum Rand mit Albträume,
Und du hast fortgedauert.

“Du pustest solche große Rauchwolken,
Verdrehst meinen Geist in solche bezaubernde Wege,
Ich könnte immer bleiben!”

Leider,
Wieder fluten Erinnerungen meinen Kopf,
Alice, du hast es mit Tränen gefüllt!
Und jetzt schwimmen wir in sie!
Alice, du musst dich erholen,
Mach es besser!
Schmerzt du wie ich?
Du musst! So muss es sein!
Du hast den gleichen Fehler wie ich gemacht.
Du bist gewandert und hast mit Blumen gesprochen,
Blumen, die nicht für dich gedacht waren
Dennoch bin ich dafür bestraft
Weil von dir.
Dein Schmerz spiegelt meins,
wie Erbsen in Schoten,
Zwillinge in Erholung.
Lege uns in Denken hinein
Wir erholen uns von ihnen
Wenn wirklich,
Wir erholen uns aus uns

—————————————

Those memories,
I remember.
They lured me in,
Trapping me in this wonderland.
It’s filled to the brim with nightmares,
and you persisted.

“You blow such great puffs of smoke,
Twisting my mind in such enchanting ways
I could stay forever!”

Alas,
Again, memories flooded my mind,
Alice, you filled it with tears!
And now we are swimming in them!
Alice you must recover,
Make it better!
Do you hurt like I do?
You must, so it must be!
You made the same mistakes as me.
You wandered and talked to flowers,
Flowers that weren’t meant for you,
Yet I am the one who is punished
Because of you!
Your pain reflects mine,
Like peas in a pod,
Twins in recovery.
Fooling ourselves in thinking
We are recovering from them
When really,
We are recovering from within.

How To Write A Poem About Clementines (In the Cold)

By Alex Crowthers

I told myself to write until I lose steam,
but nothing comes to mind.
no over-analysis of this room,
no metaphorical think about the nature of the universe,
no typically unnoticed details I can turn into poetry.
maybe I could write about discomfort,
but i’m pretty at peace, besides cool air that has
somehow
sneaked into this empty room at my boyfriend’s
house
— so cold I almost need gloves as my fingers hover
over the keyboard, thinking...
maybe I could write about physics,
how gravity works quite well against this mushy
clementine I’ve left in my school bag.
Maybe if I throw it around,
I’ll find inspiration from its bruises,
but I’ve found a fresh one and decided to use it as
a snack.
‍ ‍Clementine saved.
maybe I could write about love,
how it glows within my body,
even when I forget to acknowledge it.
how it always returns, even in passing of strang
ers.
It’s my reliable departure from doubt and indiffer
ence.
let’s try this again...
Right Now, I only have one thin sweatshirt on
because I usually prefer cold over claustrophobic layering...
Maybe I underestimated how badly I would desire warmth at this moment.

My fingers are so cold right now, staying at my boyfriend’s house
while he’s off in Charleston, warm.
(god...) I know the relief he feels for a change in scenery.

Unimportant circumstances place me here, alone,
and I just happen to be searching for poetic inspiration
while inhabiting a space that usually brings us both together.
I don’t like it here without him.
I also don’t like the term “Boyfriend”.
“Boyfriend” to me insinuates impermanence; he’s more my “partner”.

I knew he’d be beyond temporary the first time we met
— face to face sharing our souls for 7 hours straight
until the day turned to night and we got too cold to stay out.
I accidentally left my wallet in his car that night,
a hint towards many other entanglements and
moments of trust we would leave in each other’s hands.

‍ ‍He always gives me half of his freshly peeled clementines,
‍ ‍a citrusy reminder of his sweetness.

I’m sitting here at his kitchen table, and all I am thinking about is how present he feels.
He has unintentionally permeated through
the smallest fixtures in my life and livelihood,
like a song I sung as a child returning to me 21 years later.

Gravity tethers me to the earth but
he grounds me in ways that make me believe I can fly.
He gives me a lightness that defies physics, a love that inspires.
I have no need to throw myself in hopes of developing bruises
that will produce words on a page or notes on a guitar.
‍ ‍Instead, I’ll eat a clementine.

He makes me believe in:
“Energy is neither created nor destroyed,
it can only be changed from one form to another”.
It must be true — some people I’ve met before,
in another lifetime or physical form.
I can see why people turn to God(s) for answers.

‍ ‍If I believed in reincarnation, I’d come back as a clementine tree and
‍ ‍bear my fruit to all who desire to write their partner a love poem.

But this wasn’t meant to be a love poem,
but as I peel open this clementine and eat both halves,
I am reminded poetry doesn’t always have to be thrilling. Neither does love.

Sometimes all it is is sharing the better half of
the only snack left on your countertop.

‍ ‍I hope the perfume of this fruit
‍ ‍lingers in the air long enough for his return.

Buzzing/Ways to Confirm You’ve Seen Them

By Jacqueline Modungo

Yellow Jacket striding across the room

You’re a familiar face, aren’t you?

Every time someone approaches
I can almost feel the doors move
I peer across the volumes
Between the shelves
Between the bars
But maybe the track playing in my ears
Is just coloring my view
And yet, I topple the bookcase
On a half-bored, half-dependent
Chase towards the color

Your presence
only lasted a few seconds

Familiar,
Almost

I want to hold the seconds
in my hands again

I just want to know it wasn’t my imagination

Even if it stings

Clamor into the stairwell

Even when the only rush
comes from the flood of histamines

My own frenzied footsteps

The speed of sound
packs a punch

Volleyed back against me
By the marble

The moment it decides
to finally catch up

And here comes the Hum

I knew your laugh like a composition
Some days, that memory thaws from the freeze

Of what I now understand to be the
Bumble Bee

You are soft
when you’re out of sight

It knows I sense its presence
It wants me to be following

When you passed through the room
you know I knew
what you were doing

I make my way down sighing steps
Well-walked, worn stone

I’d stop asking, if I could
But unfinished phrases always get the best of-

Of frantic footpaths before me

Always being willing to run
can make a woman tired.

The bumble bee falls silent
My eyes are the only thing listening

Movement. Color. Shape.
Mean nothing
When faced with haunted grieving

And there in the lower level I see it

Might as well be an apparition

Light
A Firefly blinking against
A water fountain

As delicate as my childhood backyard
with a sliver of the sun still out

Finding delight in
Finally being found

Ideations date themselves in silence
You style your hair different now

I approach in sets of two cautious steps

please don’t fly away again

And wonder what I should do now

Ricocheted echoes
from a pulse once quickened

Now that what I know

Somehow, faint remembrance
Doesn’t feel like reconciliation

Is no longer what I imagined

Now that I’m here
I know there was no plan

To Do List

By Olivia Modica

☐ I wake up. It’s three in the morning.
☐ I go back to bed.
☐ I wake up. It’s seven in the morning.
☐ I try to go back to bed.
☐ I wake up. It’s seven in the morning.
☐ I push the covers back. I scream.
☐ I make myself get out of bed. My feet touch the cold hardwood.
☐ I take a too hot shower. My skin is red afterwards.
☐ I choose not to dry my hair.
☐ I put on my makeup. I hate how I look.
☐ I take off my makeup.
☐ I put on my makeup again, but this time I like it.
☐ I make myself get dressed. My clothes feel too tight.
☐ I wear them anyway.
☐ I forget that I hate mint.
☐ I brush my teeth until my gums bleed.
☐ I feel clean.
☐ I remember that I hate mint.
☐ I sit on my bed.
☐ I scroll through my phone.
☐ I make myself get out of bed.
☐ I eat a bowl of stale cereal.
☐ I chew slowly, but I don’t enjoy it.
☐ I make a mental note to buy more cereal.
☐ I grab my keys.
☐ I trip over my cat.
☐ I face plant on the cold floor.
☐ I drop my keys on the table.
☐ I put on my makeup again.
☐ I grab my keys.
☐ I lock the door.
☐ I get in the car to drive to work.
☐ I get out of the car because I forgot my wallet.
☐ I grab my wallet.
☐ I get distracted because my cat is doing something cute.
☐ I stop.
☐ I hear my phone rings. That’s not on the list.
☐ I leave a couple spaces blank.
☐
☐
☐
☐
☐ I find out he’s dead.
☐ I didn’t plan for this to happen today.
☐ I go back to bed.
☐ I cry a little.
☐ I cry some more.
☐ I cry a lot.
☐ I make myself get out of bed.
☐ I dry my eyes.
☐ I go to work.
☐ I smile, I work.
☐ I cry a little.
☐ I dry my eyes.
☐ I scroll through all the missed texts.
☐ I cry some more.
☐ I dry my eyes.
☐ I can’t stop my hands from shaking.
☐ I don’t eat lunch.
☐ I wish I had.
☐ I call my mom. She cries too.
☐ I hang up after hours of talking.
☐ I try to find meaning in our conversation.
☐ I fail.
☐ I get yelled at because I took too long of a break.
☐ I yell back.
☐ I get fired.
☐ I don’t care today, even though I would’ve any other day.
☐ I drive home.
☐ I almost hit a stop sign.
☐ I call my boyfriend. He doesn’t pick up.
☐ I cry a little.
☐ I cry some more.
☐ I cry a lot.
☐ I call my mom. She cries too.
☐ I dry my eyes.
☐ I sit on my bed.
☐ I pull the covers over myself.
☐ I go to sleep.
☐ I wake up. It’s midnight.
☐ I microwave myself something frozen. I don’t know what it is but I don’t really care.
☐ I burn my hand taking it out.
☐ I chew slowly.
☐ I don’t think about what it tastes like.
☐ I think about him.
☐ I wish he hadn’t died.
☐ I wish I hadn’t made myself a microwave dinner.
☐ I wish I hadn’t yelled back at my boss.
☐ I think about him.
☐ I cry a little.
☐ I cry some more.
☐ I cry a lot.
☐ I don’t dry my eyes.
☐ I look at myself in the mirror.
☐ I look at my cat on the kitchen counter.
☐ I look at myself in the mirror.
☐ I look at the clock.
☐ It’s one in the morning.
☐ I look at myself in the mirror.
☐ I go back to bed.
☐ I wake up. It’s three in the morning.

2 AM

By Ori C. Li

I’m cradled up in your arms, glasses
Pressed against your sweater.
I don’t see anything.
I just know this is good.
And when people can tell me
These things without speaking
To me, the whole world is righted.
My life as a house of cards
Is forever frozen, stable.
These moments are quiet.
Whatever it is you smell like,
I want to remember it.
I like it a lot.
I like you a lot.
And I will write this down,
As a letter, send it across the clouds
To the moon, somehow, echoing
Across the sky. I will brand
Every falling leaf with the same message
That we are walking on galaxy.
Here we are.
This is us.

Garden #2

By Sam Ferland

I keep chasing the squirrel who took
Things from my grandfathers wire-mesh-caged-garden

He slipped under a narrow path he dug
under the wooden base

I feel the sweat start to dampen my socks
as I evade the numerous roots on the ground

After hours of chasing the squirrel
he finally barrels around a tree to the top

I demand him to tell me the secret and
he says ‘why don’t you just go take a peek, the cage is see through’

Why haven’t I done that?
Or why haven’t I just went and asked my grandfather