The Poet is Dyslexic

By Grace Mary Finin

Sometimes I try to count

How many steps

Each of them took as they

walked all the sudden

all distant like

Away from me and

how many steps until

I was no longer a sight

to never be seen.

Mostly I am lazy I am a failed

fruit that cannot squeeze the supposed juice

And I am not escaping the zoo

nor would I last too long as someone’s pet.

So, I watch how easy it is

For Janice to use the knife and use it more than properly

And my life is shatter-proof in some way.

She will always puncture me

And then teach me how to

aid for myself.

It would be crucifying

To say out relationship

Has never touched a side of disorientation.

If I were to ask Janice:

how is it that we came to be?

She would neglect to never answer,

to not manage a look.

They cannot look at me, I am

Hardly around but the fright of my name

Is heard from a sum of ungrateful tongues.

I am exhausting.

Home is not in reach.

An Ode to Us

By Caroline Schwartzbeck

I thought dynamic duos were a thing of fiction, but
proved myself wrong when we grew up together,
when we became us, two pairs of little feet tickling the
front lawn, I still think you’re a nuisance just like I had
ever since you came out the womb, we’re still
sisters, not us, we fight as much as we laugh and
laugh while we fight, not at me or at you but with
us, the way our parents looked last summer when
we talked you’d think we invented another language but
of course we didn’t, it’s still English, just us, we both cried
the last time we saw each other but only just after the
fact because neither you nor me would ever sully
the sacred final moments of us, we live beyond the grave, writing
letters sometimes and calling regularly and texting
often and thinking of each other way more than that
because we’re thick as thieves and even seven hours by
car could never, ever stop us, and it’s impossible to fully
understand another human being but if it wasn’t
you’d get me and I’d get you, because who else but
us?

Portrait 1

By Madeline Broyard

Ironic Fairytale

By Taly Nudelman

Dinner Party

By Madison Morin

Car-B-Que

By Charly Ella Peter

here is my ode to cardboard french fries
to safe food runs at 9 pm
when food becomes scarce and the desserts are dry, Burger King will always be there, right
by your side

half an hour before close
you know the employees are already done
still, though, you make your way to the counter
just to ask for “one-

-impossible whopper please, completely plain” you croak
so childish, a plain burger, with ketchup and fries
she looks confused and asks you what soda you want

its dr. pepper of course, what else would it be?
Anything but 23 seems criminal to me
collect your burger and sit outside,
parked in your car you no longer will find
that extra napkin you stashed away,
in case you had a car-b-que the next day

thank god for comfort food, I’ll need you again,
forever and always you will be my best friend

Untitled

By Jadelyn

Empathy for My Mother

By Vittoria Burgess

There was a time in my life where my current situation was incomprehensible
Curled up on the couch with red eyes and smoky fingers
The inklings of my misdeeds hide wrapped in several plastic bags
And pushed into the depths of my purse

My twelve-year-old self is ashamed of the person I am
Maybe I do have a problem
“It’s not normal to need to hide so much”
But I remember being twelve

My calloused fingers constantly bleeding
The weight of my mother’s childhood was held inside my hands
She had given birth to her past
It was time to correct her mistakes

With that weight now relinquished,
Our fits are slower
We talk lighter
We ignore the hard things
I learn to hold myself up
I treat my past with forgiveness
the way I wish she could with her own

If I Could Tell Her

By Gaby Reiser

Mt. Boney

By Joy Schmutz

Before summer is May,
Warm and beautiful,
With fair weather and the last of the flowers.
She wears a dark green,
Still celebrating spring but knowing the heat is coming,
Cotton and hemp pants,
With a loose fit and a draw waist,
Yellow flowers in her hair and in her pockets.

When June and July come,
The yellow is exchanged for olive-toned scrub oak,
The last of her vibrant green for light brown and tan.
A flowing skirt and apron,
Cotton is breathable and light enough for the heat.
Her hair is tied up and covered,
Otherwise she would be covered in dust.
Her shrubs are still slightly green, though,
With pops of white from the yucca,
And the last of her creek still trickling at her feet.

When it becomes August,
She’s in dark browns,
And has shed the cotton for linen,
Despite her strong stature,
Like everyone else,
She begins to melt.
But work is hard and time is short,
With sweat on her brow, she prepared for fall.

When fall comes she is worse for wear,
September only gets warmer.
And eventually, even her sisters fold to the heat.
Eventually, she ignites.
Shades of reds and yellows,
Slashes of orange,

And she burns bright until she suddenly doesn’t.

Once the beauty of the burn is done,
she is left in mourning.
With winter on the horizon, she wears black,
Thick cotton and wool weigh her down.
She listens to the sun and the stars,
She sits with the rain when no one else will,
But never speaks herself.

And eventually, her black gown is shed,
With the smell of spring,
As it flows into February.
And she is born anew in shades of blues and orange.
The sun and the sky,
The rain and the clouds,
Could not rival her.

And with March everything explodes with color,
Soon her blue and orange wardrobe introduces tones of yellow and green,
And she sings with the birds,
And while they sleep she harmonizes with the creeks,
She sways with the grasses,
And hops with the rabbits.

And with April she celebrates,
Weathered and beautiful,
Boney is dancing in green.