et brodo by Aidan Aesoph
It was autumn the first time I boiled bones.
The frozen heft of the sliced shanks tinkled like glass against the pot
the paper refuse of onion and garlic clung to my dry fingers
as steam filled the house.
For three days, twenty seven days before Halloween,
the kitchen was warm
the pot bubbled, toiled, and
the lid occasionally bounced, resounding a large, round chime.
When I removed the lid with purpose and peered into the pot
the paper ghosts in the kitchen crinkled, warping with the steam
the water no longer filled the pot; broth had grown in its place.
It had become autumn.
The frozen heft of the sliced shanks tinkled like glass against the pot
the paper refuse of onion and garlic clung to my dry fingers
as steam filled the house.
For three days, twenty seven days before Halloween,
the kitchen was warm
the pot bubbled, toiled, and
the lid occasionally bounced, resounding a large, round chime.
When I removed the lid with purpose and peered into the pot
the paper ghosts in the kitchen crinkled, warping with the steam
the water no longer filled the pot; broth had grown in its place.
It had become autumn.
Virgin Street, 55 MPH by Aidan Aesoph
My Lady of –
Once given it cannot take
Once shed it cannot return
Once left, twice killed –
A barren snake in the road
A thousand votive candles
Surrounded by melting primrose
As she raises her –
Her –
nothing
Her eyes are down
Her hands folded in prayer
Over the silence of the snake
As it lies
twisted
In the road
Her blue –
Her blue –
(Her red –)
Covers it (me) like a shroud
Lined in the gold that fell from my lips
Painted by another’s hand
As my own grasp
And plead –
And moan –
The once writhing snake
is still
The world beneath her eyes
All of it –
The snakes –
The roads –
The sweltering, molten heat –
It carries on
with her blessing
All but the one snake left dry
By the gentle fire of her eyes
From too direct a gaze of pure beauty
Such blessed shall rise
From beneath the ashes of the moon
To slither quietly on –
Given a second skin
Once given it cannot take
Once shed it cannot return
Once left, twice killed –
A barren snake in the road
A thousand votive candles
Surrounded by melting primrose
As she raises her –
Her –
nothing
Her eyes are down
Her hands folded in prayer
Over the silence of the snake
As it lies
twisted
In the road
Her blue –
Her blue –
(Her red –)
Covers it (me) like a shroud
Lined in the gold that fell from my lips
Painted by another’s hand
As my own grasp
And plead –
And moan –
The once writhing snake
is still
The world beneath her eyes
All of it –
The snakes –
The roads –
The sweltering, molten heat –
It carries on
with her blessing
All but the one snake left dry
By the gentle fire of her eyes
From too direct a gaze of pure beauty
Such blessed shall rise
From beneath the ashes of the moon
To slither quietly on –
Given a second skin
Hijabi by Aidan Aesoph
If there is one thing to be said for scarves,
it is their color.
Anything can be bright,
be beautiful,
but none so much as a scrap of cloth
when it is artfully applied
to the radiant architecture of a
woman’s face.
Folded with care around cheekbones,
tucked beneath the curve of a jaw,
pillowed lion-like about her shoulders -
such a small thing becomes a work of art.
it is their color.
Anything can be bright,
be beautiful,
but none so much as a scrap of cloth
when it is artfully applied
to the radiant architecture of a
woman’s face.
Folded with care around cheekbones,
tucked beneath the curve of a jaw,
pillowed lion-like about her shoulders -
such a small thing becomes a work of art.
Mirage from Marrakesh by James Rudolph
In Marrakesh, there is a marketplace
With people running like ants, to and fro.
Where I saw a jewel with a smiling face,
That made this world move slow.
A jewel of white sand and black sky
that fell on my lap and asked to stay.
But as soon as my ready heart took flight,
the jewel immediately rolled away.
I saw the jewel again the other day,
No longer in Marrakesh, but D.C.
The jewel wanted to be in my lap and stay.
A promise of a future too hard to believe.
Is this a mirage from my hearts past?
Is this jewel something that will last?
With people running like ants, to and fro.
Where I saw a jewel with a smiling face,
That made this world move slow.
A jewel of white sand and black sky
that fell on my lap and asked to stay.
But as soon as my ready heart took flight,
the jewel immediately rolled away.
I saw the jewel again the other day,
No longer in Marrakesh, but D.C.
The jewel wanted to be in my lap and stay.
A promise of a future too hard to believe.
Is this a mirage from my hearts past?
Is this jewel something that will last?
Overlooked by James Rudolph
There once was a monk in Saigon
who lit himself on fire.
People looked on in horror,
as someone took a photo.
There once was a man in Cancun
who lit himself on fire.
He carried a sign saying "The WTO kills farmers,"
and a punk band wrote a song.
But a Twitter post calls for blood,
and even brings people to violence.
A rallying cry for different opinions,
over everyday social media.
Many men have set themselves on fire,
with many silent reactions that overlook the message.
But there are even more Twitter posts than martyrs,
which are catalysts in 140 characters
If Twitter set itself on fire,
would we send "thoughts and prayers."
If someone made fun of Twitter's self-immolation,
would we call for justice?
who lit himself on fire.
People looked on in horror,
as someone took a photo.
There once was a man in Cancun
who lit himself on fire.
He carried a sign saying "The WTO kills farmers,"
and a punk band wrote a song.
But a Twitter post calls for blood,
and even brings people to violence.
A rallying cry for different opinions,
over everyday social media.
Many men have set themselves on fire,
with many silent reactions that overlook the message.
But there are even more Twitter posts than martyrs,
which are catalysts in 140 characters
If Twitter set itself on fire,
would we send "thoughts and prayers."
If someone made fun of Twitter's self-immolation,
would we call for justice?
In Search of Sunrise by James Rudolph
You may not see it, but they are there,
one almost every night.
In a musty warehouse or industrial wasteland
awaits an electronic Shangri-La.
You won't understand until you open the door
and exit the turbulent world.
But open the door and inside you will see
the ideal world you are looking for.
Bass fills your lungs like water,
filling you at 45 RPM.
Rhythm keeps you moving,
never back, always forward.
Lights of every color flash around you,
taking you in a warm embrace.
All in a steel-raftered room of industry
resides this place of ecstasy.
And the people.
You beautiful people
who give this world life.
Adorned in crowns of light and color,
they are forever moving with music.
They all wear smiles on their faces,
as though it is some requirement.
Laughing, dancing, spinning, smiling,
an undulating sea of celebration.
No pain, no hate, no drama, no sadness,
no room for those in this world.
Everyone comes from different places,
and came here for different reasons.
Some come for music,
seeking stimulated transcendence.
Others come for the safety
and freedom to feel who they are.
Some come to find love in a pill,
or chase some cocaine-daydream.
While others come for the glitz
and the glamor of coming here.
But soon those reasons fade away,
as you start to feel the truth.
We are all here for the same reasons,
and we all want the same thing.
As you dance and smile and see
that the music never dies,
you'll finally see that we are here, simply
In Search of Sunrise.
one almost every night.
In a musty warehouse or industrial wasteland
awaits an electronic Shangri-La.
You won't understand until you open the door
and exit the turbulent world.
But open the door and inside you will see
the ideal world you are looking for.
Bass fills your lungs like water,
filling you at 45 RPM.
Rhythm keeps you moving,
never back, always forward.
Lights of every color flash around you,
taking you in a warm embrace.
All in a steel-raftered room of industry
resides this place of ecstasy.
And the people.
You beautiful people
who give this world life.
Adorned in crowns of light and color,
they are forever moving with music.
They all wear smiles on their faces,
as though it is some requirement.
Laughing, dancing, spinning, smiling,
an undulating sea of celebration.
No pain, no hate, no drama, no sadness,
no room for those in this world.
Everyone comes from different places,
and came here for different reasons.
Some come for music,
seeking stimulated transcendence.
Others come for the safety
and freedom to feel who they are.
Some come to find love in a pill,
or chase some cocaine-daydream.
While others come for the glitz
and the glamor of coming here.
But soon those reasons fade away,
as you start to feel the truth.
We are all here for the same reasons,
and we all want the same thing.
As you dance and smile and see
that the music never dies,
you'll finally see that we are here, simply
In Search of Sunrise.
Open Door by Monica Flickinger
I am pinned to you
by our fence of genes
You, on the other side
of the rusted chainlink
a beast of the wild,
predator of youth groups,
and middle school dances.
My closed eyes always see
an apparition of her,
the hurting child.
I am bound to that room,
that bed of childhood.
The weight of the lies you told
sitting in the house you built
around your shame.
I am forced to visit, step inside
the web of hoarded pain.
You've named yourself holy man,
martyred man,
I bleed still at your hand,
your call for more flesh
in your rotting mouth.
Rewind the tapes 15 years,
step away from the open door.
Let the child sleep, alone.
Dad is sleeping down the hall.
She's only a child.
by our fence of genes
You, on the other side
of the rusted chainlink
a beast of the wild,
predator of youth groups,
and middle school dances.
My closed eyes always see
an apparition of her,
the hurting child.
I am bound to that room,
that bed of childhood.
The weight of the lies you told
sitting in the house you built
around your shame.
I am forced to visit, step inside
the web of hoarded pain.
You've named yourself holy man,
martyred man,
I bleed still at your hand,
your call for more flesh
in your rotting mouth.
Rewind the tapes 15 years,
step away from the open door.
Let the child sleep, alone.
Dad is sleeping down the hall.
She's only a child.
Ovaries by Cynthia Zelmore
Just above my hip bones,
Two white lines, three inches long
Run across each side of my stomach.
For years I had never noticed them,
Hidden under marks made by my clothes,
Until puberty,
When I discovered that the difficulties
Of being a woman
Began at birth for me.
Two months old revealed two hernias.
I was still a child,
And told it was unlikely,
That I could ever make one of my own.
What good are two scarred ovaries,
If I can never use them for their biological function?
Who could I become one day if not someone’s mother?
Of course there’s adoption,
Because after all I might be,
Isn’t that all the world sees?
So long as I could still fit the formula,
Every other piece of me,
In place for their ideas,
A pair of long legs,
Long hair,
Breasts,
And full lips,
They could still name me feminine.
But their blueprints and recipes,
Will never see the crux of what makes a woman.
Two white lines, three inches long
Run across each side of my stomach.
For years I had never noticed them,
Hidden under marks made by my clothes,
Until puberty,
When I discovered that the difficulties
Of being a woman
Began at birth for me.
Two months old revealed two hernias.
I was still a child,
And told it was unlikely,
That I could ever make one of my own.
What good are two scarred ovaries,
If I can never use them for their biological function?
Who could I become one day if not someone’s mother?
Of course there’s adoption,
Because after all I might be,
Isn’t that all the world sees?
So long as I could still fit the formula,
Every other piece of me,
In place for their ideas,
A pair of long legs,
Long hair,
Breasts,
And full lips,
They could still name me feminine.
But their blueprints and recipes,
Will never see the crux of what makes a woman.
16 by Sydney Holley
-At 16
I wake up ashamed, Chemicals melt under my tongue
and fill my teeth. I lie in silence waiting for the bitterness to exit
My dad tells me that pills will grab me with their claws- his eyes are serious.
They tell me about the texture of opioids
But my father and I are different people.
I fall asleep ashamed
-15
I am sick in someone’s basement, alcohol bubbling in my stomach
My face is warm- the cement outside is frozen and crystallized.
My brother hasn’t been the same since his plummet into psychedelics
Ebin says a blot he had taken may have been laced like thread
but in 15 years I have never doubted his ability to fly
-14
I think I am in love and I live in his system even though he threw me up
I receive letters from my best friend in rehab- cut out hearts pouring from the envelope
I haven’t spoken to her since my birthday: It was one in the morning
And she wished me a happy day before apologizing and hanging
up the phone
I drift to sleep silently on a couch in a pitch black living room.
-13
My friend is inhaling a can of compressed air
I hear the devil smile underneath her laughter: his smile crackles.
I thought she was dead and it still lingers around my knuckles
I walk around late at night with piercings in my face, cigarettes in my hand
because in the beginning of my adolescence, I think I am fearless.
-12
My father says goodbye to my mother
I am 12 when I first see her weep that way
I am in therapy at 11, I subtract 8
And at 3, I sleep next to Ebin with Stuart Little in the VHS
although I have to watch home movies
to remember these moments.
2, 1,
-At 0
I am born premature
The umbilical cord is wrapped around my neck. and my father cries
before he tells my mother that I look just like Ebin
I look just like Ebin
-At 16
I wake up and the bitterness I know so well hasn’t left me yet
It is still in the gaps of my teeth and smothered on my gums
Even though I am only 16,
I wait patiently for the claws that my father
warned me about
But my father and I are different people.
I fall asleep ashamed.
I wake up ashamed, Chemicals melt under my tongue
and fill my teeth. I lie in silence waiting for the bitterness to exit
My dad tells me that pills will grab me with their claws- his eyes are serious.
They tell me about the texture of opioids
But my father and I are different people.
I fall asleep ashamed
-15
I am sick in someone’s basement, alcohol bubbling in my stomach
My face is warm- the cement outside is frozen and crystallized.
My brother hasn’t been the same since his plummet into psychedelics
Ebin says a blot he had taken may have been laced like thread
but in 15 years I have never doubted his ability to fly
-14
I think I am in love and I live in his system even though he threw me up
I receive letters from my best friend in rehab- cut out hearts pouring from the envelope
I haven’t spoken to her since my birthday: It was one in the morning
And she wished me a happy day before apologizing and hanging
up the phone
I drift to sleep silently on a couch in a pitch black living room.
-13
My friend is inhaling a can of compressed air
I hear the devil smile underneath her laughter: his smile crackles.
I thought she was dead and it still lingers around my knuckles
I walk around late at night with piercings in my face, cigarettes in my hand
because in the beginning of my adolescence, I think I am fearless.
-12
My father says goodbye to my mother
I am 12 when I first see her weep that way
I am in therapy at 11, I subtract 8
And at 3, I sleep next to Ebin with Stuart Little in the VHS
although I have to watch home movies
to remember these moments.
2, 1,
-At 0
I am born premature
The umbilical cord is wrapped around my neck. and my father cries
before he tells my mother that I look just like Ebin
I look just like Ebin
-At 16
I wake up and the bitterness I know so well hasn’t left me yet
It is still in the gaps of my teeth and smothered on my gums
Even though I am only 16,
I wait patiently for the claws that my father
warned me about
But my father and I are different people.
I fall asleep ashamed.
Roots by Sydney Holley
Mom,
The green light has gone from my eyes
I forgot about myself for going on six months now
I keep looking in my reflection
through dilated pupils
and I see a new face every time I do
but with the same
pink pigment and freckles I’ve seen in
the person before
Dad has been telling me
“You sound so whacked out of your mind
all the time”
and I’ve been replying with silences
loud enough to break my old best friend’s
drug addiction.
The winter has drained the life out of me
Father Sky is the cigarette ash I’ve been sleeping in, tossing and turning
The trees are dead, rotting and withering
Reaching their scrawny arms out
for a helping hand
as if they are yelling to me “Throw
lime green paint on the frozen
grass below me! Swallow the
pine needles that are stepped into the soil
with my soul!”
I’ve woken up more times than mornings
mom but
I’ve been ignoring every warning sign
Dad has been asking me
“What has been wrong with you?”
and when I reply in silences
burdening enough
to bury the both of us alive,
the roots of the
helpless settle into the ground
once again in bliss
or perhaps defeat
The green light has gone from my eyes
I forgot about myself for going on six months now
I keep looking in my reflection
through dilated pupils
and I see a new face every time I do
but with the same
pink pigment and freckles I’ve seen in
the person before
Dad has been telling me
“You sound so whacked out of your mind
all the time”
and I’ve been replying with silences
loud enough to break my old best friend’s
drug addiction.
The winter has drained the life out of me
Father Sky is the cigarette ash I’ve been sleeping in, tossing and turning
The trees are dead, rotting and withering
Reaching their scrawny arms out
for a helping hand
as if they are yelling to me “Throw
lime green paint on the frozen
grass below me! Swallow the
pine needles that are stepped into the soil
with my soul!”
I’ve woken up more times than mornings
mom but
I’ve been ignoring every warning sign
Dad has been asking me
“What has been wrong with you?”
and when I reply in silences
burdening enough
to bury the both of us alive,
the roots of the
helpless settle into the ground
once again in bliss
or perhaps defeat
A/V by Megan Vivian
You can’t cover the line
it’ll show through on the edges
and the fact your finger is there gives it away
You can’t white it out
the paleness won’t match the color
and it’ll leave a smudge that amplifies instead of distracts
You can’t saw it off
without redoing the finish on the whole thing to match
and the noise from the effort will give you away every time
You need to do it all and none of it to seem like you’re doing everything and nothing
wash off the paint and leave a new coat
redo the bevel to align it all properly
reinforce the back to make it seem normal
never complain about what you were given
go over it and over it until you wouldn’t guess yourself
But even then you’ll still be upside down
it’ll show through on the edges
and the fact your finger is there gives it away
You can’t white it out
the paleness won’t match the color
and it’ll leave a smudge that amplifies instead of distracts
You can’t saw it off
without redoing the finish on the whole thing to match
and the noise from the effort will give you away every time
You need to do it all and none of it to seem like you’re doing everything and nothing
wash off the paint and leave a new coat
redo the bevel to align it all properly
reinforce the back to make it seem normal
never complain about what you were given
go over it and over it until you wouldn’t guess yourself
But even then you’ll still be upside down
Childhood by Megan Vivian
Starting to wonder
If when I fell
From the house staircase
Into the glass vase
With my family there
Slicing my foot, my toes
In silver-tan lines
Leaking blood into water
What looked like tomato
Which I even recognized
At an age before five
How I would manage to
Climb or jump or
If I ever fell
If when I fell
From the house staircase
Into the glass vase
With my family there
Slicing my foot, my toes
In silver-tan lines
Leaking blood into water
What looked like tomato
Which I even recognized
At an age before five
How I would manage to
Climb or jump or
If I ever fell
Wording Restrained for Conscience of Reader by Megan Vivian
Do you really want to know?
Would you want me to tell you
How the walls went from white to [____]
And the [____] turned black from beige
And how my cat was locked [______…]
While her dogs ripped apart [..._____]
And how the [____]s and [__]s lived in the drain
How the dishes were set on fire in a pile
And how the windows let in all [___-____]
Or how when driving to [__________________]
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// off a cliff
Just to m<_-_-___>
The child who ran away through the snow
<,,,,found a,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,>
And then got taken back home
The sh_uting and curs_s and all the [___]
D[]th [__]ats and [-------]s
The [------] I received
Is all some kind of v---------c game
For all the peop|e who ask
In every new c|ass the same
What is your name and list all of your hobbies
My identity is irrelevant because of [_]
And I spend my time s...ing
Not every story is poetic and dramatic
Sometimes the stories are [---]s
And the [---]s are traumatic
I’m tired of /////// and I’m tired of \\\\\\\\\
-- ------ is dead -- --
And I am [_________________________
_________________________________________
_________________________________________________
Would you want me to tell you
How the walls went from white to [____]
And the [____] turned black from beige
And how my cat was locked [______…]
While her dogs ripped apart [..._____]
And how the [____]s and [__]s lived in the drain
How the dishes were set on fire in a pile
And how the windows let in all [___-____]
Or how when driving to [__________________]
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// off a cliff
Just to m<_-_-___>
The child who ran away through the snow
<,,,,found a,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,>
And then got taken back home
The sh_uting and curs_s and all the [___]
D[]th [__]ats and [-------]s
The [------] I received
Is all some kind of v---------c game
For all the peop|e who ask
In every new c|ass the same
What is your name and list all of your hobbies
My identity is irrelevant because of [_]
And I spend my time s...ing
Not every story is poetic and dramatic
Sometimes the stories are [---]s
And the [---]s are traumatic
I’m tired of /////// and I’m tired of \\\\\\\\\
-- ------ is dead -- --
And I am [_________________________
_________________________________________
_________________________________________________
Tamed by Lindsey Rush
I refuse to be domestic
But I’m over being wild.
Isn’t there a way to be tame
even for a little while?
Take my heart, take my word.
If I am yours then you are mine;
an eye for an eye?
Your heart in exchange for mine.
But I’m over being wild.
Isn’t there a way to be tame
even for a little while?
Take my heart, take my word.
If I am yours then you are mine;
an eye for an eye?
Your heart in exchange for mine.
The Way It Is by Lindsey Rush
The world is so unnecessarily
Wild.
It gives no reason for the things it does.
The universe doesn’t think twice
of the pain it’s abilities inflict.
The sun does not regret
Taking the moons spot in the sky.
The world is unforgivably
Harsh.
Wild.
It gives no reason for the things it does.
The universe doesn’t think twice
of the pain it’s abilities inflict.
The sun does not regret
Taking the moons spot in the sky.
The world is unforgivably
Harsh.
Want. Need. Love. by Lindsey Rush
“Need”,
is such an extreme word
I hardly ever use.
But “want”,
is such a mild word
When it comes to you.
I don’t need you to keep me
Alive,
But without you I’m barely
Living.
I want you to be mine
forever
Yet want is not the proper word.
It is more than a “want”,
Not quite a “need”.
I think it might just be
“Love”.
is such an extreme word
I hardly ever use.
But “want”,
is such a mild word
When it comes to you.
I don’t need you to keep me
Alive,
But without you I’m barely
Living.
I want you to be mine
forever
Yet want is not the proper word.
It is more than a “want”,
Not quite a “need”.
I think it might just be
“Love”.
As Close As Can Be by Lindsey Rush
My great grandmother passed away
He attended his paternal grandmothers’ funeral
I met my godfather for the first time, as far as my memory allowed
He hugged his niece, how big she had grown
Seeming more like old photos of my grandpop than those I’d seen of my uncle
So many years of her life had passed without his knowledge of anything
It makes perfect sense, yet I did not expect him to be so aged since the latest photograph
He said his goodbyes to the family; to his dying sister
Sure that he would come back again, for more funerals. So many funerals.
He returned to life on the west coast without another word
In all the loss, I wanted my family to gain
“You are my god-child and I only want us to be as close as we can"
I thought that I could get him back, one broken piece that still had a pulse
He re-entered into his mothers’ welcoming arms, a boy became man, and found his way home
True colors are never as vibrant as we imagine they will be
Back in good graces and thriving as the only son, the only man to hold the name
He doesn’t want to know me, incapable of the relationship I thought I wanted
Godfather, goddaughter, as close as they can be
“Do not place an expectation on your child
You will only wind up disappointed
You take what they are able to give you
You will only wind up disappointed
You take what they are able to give you
And you are grateful for it."
Cosmic by Rosemary Aquilina
when I see you
I am immersed
yourself to me:
a universe
you are dark depths
filled with nebulous glow
a brilliance of stars
and warm aureole
and I,
a wondering cosmonaut,
look and whisper
“What hath God wrought?"
I am immersed
yourself to me:
a universe
you are dark depths
filled with nebulous glow
a brilliance of stars
and warm aureole
and I,
a wondering cosmonaut,
look and whisper
“What hath God wrought?"
For a Moment by Calvin Livengood
The crystal wind was tinkling through the autumn mist,
the dawn of day hung but for a moment, then whisked away.
The pasture grass was wet with dew, the morning broke with fury,
with a golden ray of sun, what a diadem of beauty!
The day went on like any else,
The morning turned to noon,
The sun beat down with its warming rays,
And drove away life’s gloom
I found a little quiet place, as afternoon was fleeting,
And heard the song of the whippoorwill, tremulous, soft, and pretty,
The sapphire sky turned gray, with twinkling stars appearing,
Just for a moment now—let me enjoy this beauty.
the dawn of day hung but for a moment, then whisked away.
The pasture grass was wet with dew, the morning broke with fury,
with a golden ray of sun, what a diadem of beauty!
The day went on like any else,
The morning turned to noon,
The sun beat down with its warming rays,
And drove away life’s gloom
I found a little quiet place, as afternoon was fleeting,
And heard the song of the whippoorwill, tremulous, soft, and pretty,
The sapphire sky turned gray, with twinkling stars appearing,
Just for a moment now—let me enjoy this beauty.