Category: Fall 2022 Edition

night, painted thin onto the air
no clouds, no stars, just oceanic blue and
clocks that do not tick, we climb up slippery
ladder rungs, across rickety beams still in our
party clothes, still in awe of our youth, our
hands, one another’s warm bodies, sharp
bones, secrets spilled like wine on the carpet,
we run away, fast past noise complaints, those
who can’t catch on, we hitch a ride, our skirts
up, climb high into the dangerous, wanton
night that paints itself an endless blue
symphony we throw ourselves at the canvas
of nighttime see what sticks, what hurts, what
reminds us of fire and being eleven, when I
learned how to ride my bike with no hands I
had no idea I would be chasing
this feeling, headlong, forever

Claudia Maurino, ’24

Last year it snowed on Halloween,
and my body was so lonely
I cried while my family watched The Shining,
and went to bed early.
Now I can’t remember anything but bodies
and more crying.
I went outside for a cigarette,
trailed by ten people.
Everyone called me by the correct name,
but no one had a lighter.
I try kissing underneath flashing lights,
I try silent nights
I try special effects makeup.
Oh God,
I got flayed-off pieces of myself everywhere,
all over the tile floor,
all over the driveway.
Oh God,
the lungs will be the next to go.
We are all just pairs of lips, bloodstained nonetheless,
the comforts we seek in one another
superficial wounds on a much more bloated corpse.
Made of fossil fuels,
cheap and destructive and easy to burn out
The lights stay on after the parking lot empties.
I always get the feeling that
I’m not supposed to be here,
forgive those who trespass
they’ve got nowhere else to go.
All the firewood got wet last night,
and no one’s got a lighter.
Don’t tell your parents what I was doing in the spare room,
and how I felt like a fake prophet
and how I knew no one loved me
as much as I loved them in that moment,
and how I drove home with the windows down,
hoping the air would cleanse me
and how it didn’t,
and I knew it didn’t,
but there’s no one to apologize to,
that wouldn’t shoot me on the spot,
and how I don’t know how to pray,
so instead I just look at the lights reflecting
from inside warm houses onto wet pavement,
imagining what it might feel like to be inside them.

Mikey Roy, ’26

The first poem was written by my late father and rediscovered a decade later amongst his things. I didn’t know he was a poet before finding his old work, and I decided to write companion pieces for much of his work to bring it to life even after he is no longer with us. The second piece was my companion piece, to reinterpret his idea into the context of my own life and writing.

Man Without Fire

I am a man without fire.
Damp, smoldering smoke, 
Clinging to cracked ice,
In desolate winter.
I wait for rescue from
Black water encroaching
From etched lines of ruin.
I am full of doubt and rain.
Isolate and still,
My frozen figure,
Crawling to your shore.
You are my refuge,
For I am cold and without light.
I seek warmth and forgiveness,
A shivering stranger,
Seeking your shelter
From nights cold and windless,
Under icy stars burning,
Without heat or tenderness.
A lonely pilgrim,
My hand seeks your heart.
Upon your breast,
I feel your life and warmth,
Your flame fills me,
From hand to heart,
And I am joined to you.
You are my fire,
My sun, my life and my light.
I am warm.

Creature Without Fire

I am a creature without fire,
Confiscated by the gods,
I tremble in
the cold moonlight.
Swimming in black water,
A desolate December night.
Tortured by
my own naivety,
A mind of cold marble and
Thoughts of broken glass
I shiver against
the unforgiving waves,
Clawing desperately
at salvation.
Your figure draws closer,
A halo against
the blackened sky.
My personal Prometheus, Torch
of stolen blessings in hand. You
scoop me
from the rapids,
teasing my clumsy manner
with your gentle tongue.
I climb into your arms,
Cradle of divine creation.
Comfort seeps
into my bones.
Your hot breath
warms my soul,
Yet your mystery
envelops me.
Seductive and serene,
Like the silver moon,
Watching over us both.

Kay Denmead, ’24

You have trapped a young princess,
Held high in her high tower,
Of male irons and masculine marble,
A monument to never being allowed to cry. The princess
has no mirror,
No sense of who she is because no one notices, Hiding behind
brown eyes and long lashes, Witnessing the outer shell burn.
She will look out her window,
Waiting for the knight to cross the moat
And turn around in an instance
At the sight of her army hair.
She tried on a Queen's dress and shoe
In the kingdom she once resided.
Now that home is no longer her palace,
But a prison inside a prison.
Bars on top of bars,
Brick on top of brick,
This sweet soul who loves to dance and sing Will never push
down hard enough
On the walls that she put up
Before she knew there was hope.
So now I stand as a knight,
Hesitant to cross the moat
To the tower of abandoned desire,
Where my inner princess cries our tears.

Alejandro Barton-Negreiros, ’23

I feel like I could conquer the world
set down my sword I never wished to wield
heavy in my weary, calloused hands
and invite my demons to afternoon tea
to talk out our differences like true diplomats over cucumber
and dill cream cheese sandwich squares cut into little shapes
and delicate desserts and the loose leaf tea my mom keeps in the
back of the cabinet reserved to drink only on special occasions
I will ask them if they'd like cream or sugar and we
will wear silly hats and flowery dresses I will forget
my sorrows and soak in the sunshine bleeding through the
windows and into my pores bleeding through my
insecurities and worries bleeding through my floral
armor
onto the pristine, white tablecloth
but the pain will dissipate
we will hold hands
and I will forgive.

Kay Denmead, ’24

I don’t know what you were or what you are,
But I don't like being followed.
Don’t tell me what to do, I’m real you’re not,
People can see you but they don’t really see you.
They see me stretched out on the concrete,
I see you, mocking me everywhere I go.
When we are alone, you step out from under me,
Climbing the walls and the ceiling.
Maybe I’ve misunderstood you,
Maybe all you want is to be free,
Well, get in line, me too.

Alejandro Barton-Negreiros, ’23

the day breaks
a grin like porcelain
hot, with a wind
like laughter blowing

through your long hair
apple blossoms, recklessly
strewn, little poems
little prayers, I whisper

in the morning, afraid to
disturb the glassy waters
of a new day, to step like a
stone, to skip

class, play, wanton
like a child, to braid
dandelion sentences
into a story shaped

like a crown, light
as a kiss on your head
thrown back, perpetual
awe to still be spinning

days like seed pods
falling, gay pollinators
a thousand little stories
tripping up your heels

digging in the soft earth
finding more and more—
hope, days, light,
every creature of love
again uncovered

Claudia Maurino, ’24

Your hair was dark,
eyes a rich brown under sun,
and the breeze sent a chill down my spine.

You held me close to keep me warm,
voice deep, caressing my ears,
as I laid on your shoulder.

Proclaiming nonchalant intentions
that would melt through your mind,
sharp mind, and gentle heart.

A tentatively explored suspicious bud, our beginning of blossoms,
that would eventually flower. 

In the field, by the pond,
skipping the butterflies filling my stomach across the water’s surface.

As I peered into the water cautiously,
I saw my reflection alone,
glowing pink and hot.

The longer I gazed, the deeper the bottom became, tropical fish swam out to greet me,
born from my pink demeanor.

Flooded with a neon embrace,
my cheeks turned warm
and sore from my smiles.

I turned to you, 
eager to share in the pinkness,
but you could not hear me.

Kay Denmead, ’24

Bound to this Earth. I’m looking for salvation. 

Death sits in the passenger seat,
The wheel is in my hands as I turn on your lane
I can never forget the home we built.
Its key forever in my pocket and I’ve tucked
Old receipts into leather wallets.
The shadow of a ring imprinted on my finger,

It took a bit to get it off. You forced it on. 

Death stops the car—
He turns. Peering into my face. Eyeing my black adornment.
Chains lay on my legs, link by link,
They clank as I move quietly
I don’t want to anger you, with so much noise. 

I open the door and walk the path, as you stand over my bed
There are roses in your hand. Taken from the vase,
I placed them days ago. A few petals have fallen. Colors faded. 

You grab my hand
As we begin our eternal damnation
A dance that never ends.
You always cue for another song even though
My shoes are worn and sweat trickles
down my neck. I stand there as
Your hot tongue licks it up

And death never stops once.

Death sits in my car. He doesn’t fade away.
The ignition is off, a hum continues
Its melody long forgotten,
Yet always remembered

The car door opens
And Death makes his exit—

Danielle Marrocco, ’25

I’m listening to you, to all
The things we left unsaid.
To the crackling of the static
And the creaking of your bed.
I’m measuring the distance
Between us. Between now and
 Back then, but the numbers
Come back null, and
 Schrödinger’s Cat is
{Half}-[Dead.]

God does not play dice.
A beam of light splits.
Photons everywhere at once,
Nothing exists.

Tangible until we touch
Sweet until I taste.
Beautiful on paper,
In lieu of time and place.
But when we come together,
Our bodies lose their shape.
Everything reduced to
Electron haze.

Is there something beneath us,
Anything at all?
Some fundamental framework
To catch us if we fall?
If we had closed our eyes,
Together, last Summer,
Would time itself have stalled?

{God does not exist}                   [But God does not play dice.]
{And nothing’s set in stone.}               [A blood vessel bursts.]
{Our atoms are entangled, love,}         [The pressure is too much,]
{I’ll see you back at home.}            [And out everything spurts.]

Zachary Joseph, ’26

Our fights will never be fair ones,
my darling. I am but a swift white
bird, a tongueless bird, who still,
against the rest of it, sings for you.

If you love me, you must also love
the war within. And the blood around
my mouth. Can you hear the church
bells beneath the graveyard dirt?

Die sideways. Die halfway. Tell me,
again, that I will not ruin this.

Tell me, again, that these metaphors
are tired. It is time to rest my wings.
Sacrifice me to the sky. Please, baby,
please, just let me have one more song.

Mia Vittimberga, ’26

Against myself, I dream. The lonely moon gazes down.
Mary in the elevator, Simon on the roof,
            and who knows where Jesus has gone —
                        probably starting fires in an empty alleyway,
                                    the beautiful lunatic…
Every day, my friends find new profanities to worship.
            Through mouthfuls of twilights
                        we tell each other we can’t keep breathing.
            Still, I lock our windows. The lights stay on.
                                    Most swords are double-edged, anyway,
                        you say, jaw cutting through the neon air
                                    like a battle cry, an untuned guitar, a ladder to heaven, a hymnal
            Across the hall, Judas is jerking off
                        I think I’m getting sicker
                                    as my teeth strangle another lump of smoke-soaked air
                       I ask the untilled earth for a secret, any secret.
— When I am gone, who will water the roses above my grave?

Mia Vittimberga, ’26

Many ask how things like art and love can blossom in such a hardened, pain riddled, bloodied world.

The artists and lovers in the world can count the ways to cause either flower to blossom in response to the critics going through life like hard shells coloring everything to be black, white, and dull.

One for the money, paid in exchange for pain and metallic flavored blood. Often as the result of the loss of one’s Innocence but stimulated by stubborn rooted spite.

Two for the honey flavored love, still pouring out of vacant hearts still broken years after the end of the rendezvous seasoned affair but revived to run on naive colored hope and the stubborn belief that true love is the light of life.

Three for the emboldened award of fame you get, often given after you’ve worked yourself bloody to the bone hurling yourself towards the finish line after running on hardening stubborn spite and stimulating hope.

Four for the painful price you pay, the pricetag being your sanity and peace of mind, often the two being the most vital tools when sacrificing sleep, spending hours in the early A.M curating the perfect piece of art or crying over a broken heart that was hit by Cupid’s arrow.

Five is for the hours spent perfecting one’s craft of artistic talent, spending forever looking for the smallest cracked imperfection in their piece of art.

Six is for art in love as so many lovers look for the smallest imperfections in fear of the impending hurt and pain that would come as the result of being blindsided from any crack of wrong flung at any two people blinded by love.

Such in life so in art and love. The two shall forever be intertwined as no art is made without love and the story of love itself is seen as a work of art.

Hope Jacobs

Because I put my feet down on asphalt
when I want to brake. The downhill behind our Marshfield home
a portal to a daymare of mine
where my Achilles heel is sliced
by a rusty chain and paternal
disappointment.

Because my sister is a natural,
a real Eddy Merckx with a puff ponytail.
No tan hands on the bars, confidence abundant
to pedal up to the lone cloud
nauseatingly high in the Huntington Beach summer sky.
My Scooby Doo push pop—I get that every time—
is pooling around the hairbands that live on my wrist, just in case,
I hide under a beach umbrella because I have learned to fear
sunburn since I was five.

Because the streets of Fisherman’s Wharf
are a daredevil’s red carpet.
Evil does not live inside drivers with eyes on the top of their heads;
I do.
Who am I when I lay on the sizzling pavement, staring
at Coit Tower and switching with frequency from spotted black to burning white?
Who am I when my hands cage my wail as my eyes have returned
to a spot above my nose to look upon a half-woman, half-aquamarine metal
tangle of a person for the very first time?
To avoid becoming both, I decide to be neither.
Until I am 31, late to every doctor’s appointment, no groceries in my refrigerator
because my father is gone, my mother still works, and my sister is postpartum
and advised not to drive until next Wednesday.

Because my gut controls my brain,
who commands my lungs, who become the twin overlords
of my legs and delicate inner workings of my ears.
Then, I must think of my right-sided Eustachian tube
who has ruptured countlessly before with the wheeze of a sad balloon.
I must think of how I rearrange anatomy to explain my chronically bad balance.

My gut, dear obstacle, mixing your modern acid
anxiety with my primordial instinct to stay rooted to the ground,
to never try and fly because flounder is a monster worse than any
Saber-toothed tiger.
Because, you see, if humanity depended on me
to crawl out of the water with a curiosity so incurable
not even death by the laser Sun or claws of some flying reptile scared me away,
we would still be fish.

Tori Ingram, ’24

it’s quieter here, lost at sea.
light reflecting into our bodies, not off of them,
violets pooling into collarbones
dripping onto unbeaten paths, shattered ceramics.

hail a mary between
shots of venom,
red leaves in wayward zephyrs,
floating islands, long-dead melodies,
the other side of the ancient story.

there’s an orgasm in our apathy
if i shut my eyes
while you swaddle me
in an electric fence’s chain-link quilt,
i can pretend we are the same coin again.

my lovely little sinner,
spit on my feet, wonder what went wrong,
anything you want — just don’t look back.
haven’t you heard?
we don’t have to play dead anymore.

Mia Vittimberga, ’26