Category: Spring 2022 Edition

Trigger Warnings: Poverty, death.

Breathe in the exhaust
of my old 2007, darling;
let the smoke roll
through your body—
don’t fret, don’t hide
don’t cough, don’t leave—

Spring comes with green leaves
and my wallet’s exhausted
as is the leather hide.
Feed me, darling,
fill my body,
build it into rolls

of fat and watch it roll
like bread, leavened
by your hands, your body
no longer exhausted.
Let the poverty out, darling—
we don’t have to hide

from its hidden 
dangers, let it roll
out of our minds, darling
until we can leave
everything— this exhaustion
and those mortal bodies—

in the old soil, those bodies
buried and hidden
beneath, exhausted.
Let the new grass roll
above us, leaving
us behind. Come, darling.

Join me in the dust, darling.
Show off your skeleton body 
to the bugs under the leaves—
we won’t need to hide
much longer, under the roll
of time, below new exhaust

from new cars, while we are hidden
among the rolling
dead, no longer poor nor exhausted.

James Ofria, ’23

The tree folds over the field,
Its leaves are dust in between air,
Flowers only grow in deserts.
The beaches grew taller and wider,
They walked along the roads we build,
And turned our cities to sand castles.
We wash away the water,
We replace it with rain drops,
Pouring into the dry sewage.
A little sprout pokes out,
Return to green.

In a valley of scarecrows,
Dead stray and sticks broken,
What used to be a meadow,
Is now the graveyard of feeding prey.
Horse skulls and rib cages,
Glowing white light in the day,
Like the last snow that ever fell,
Never again to,
Return to green.

A cat walked across a lake,
A pond, a stream,
The ocean was too far for it to walk,
The fish were dry on the crust,
The Grand Canyon would be easier.
A dog growls at its owners grave,
No one dug it, no one visits it,
He is only digging down, down, down,
Till he digs out the dirt,
Scratches through the coffin, 
And by then he is already dead, 
Buried with his human by another,
There to rob his wrists.
Best friends at eternal rest,
Returning to green.

Alejandro Barton-Negreiros, ’23

Mouths cracked open, their golden yolk spilling out onto a seasoned griddle
Spittle of words oozing out across the paprika scent, the fried poem plated
With a sausage patty of lyric and the toasted bread of want,

Pour a chilled glass of zest citrus syrup, the sour daiquiri of change
And drink the romance slowly…
Let it pool in your cheeks, wash your teeth with the scent of limes
And digest the sugary coating of your throat as bites of purpose nip your tongue,

Kiss with liquor on your lips when the whiskey courage of a ballad drips onto your chin
And talk about Home as though it tasted like empanadillas dripping con queso
El carne, the grease, the presence of peers satiating our always hunger,

Serve it piping hot and sweating with tang, to those starving (just like you!)
Never forget the pang of hunger, the sting of uneaten desire,
Since every syllable lost is one more forgotten ingredient in the manifesto,

Write your comfort food out onto the page and breathe in the rising steam of cream,
The childhood bowl of nostalgic affection a dip for the freshly baked roll of love,

Never discriminate the ears of the nourished with the dishes you may fear they'll dislike
Since every tastebud must make first acquaintance, every thought from your kneading palms
A new spice for the cabinet, another dash of salt and pepper honesty (to taste).

Write your poetry like you pour out sauce, drips of temptation and creative flavor,
Doing everything in their power to drench the starch of mindfulness with savory, soulful, nectar.

Jorge Biaggi, ’23

Wish for you to take me in your foggy memory,
Fluffing away the features of my face,
Let it burst into clouds.

Let the lakes of tears behind these,
Silent, sorrowful, suffering eyes,
Be heated in the cushioned silence of your humid shroud,
And let the screams and cries that float in those lakes,
Flee with a final burst of shear agony,
Because overhead the sun was shining,
But only grey clouds overcast me.

Let me cry into your thickened atmosphere,
And hope that no one ever heard me suffer,
Because if a tree falls in the woods,
And no one is there to see it,
No one was there to see the rot inside,
The thunder that struck it down.

No one will be here to see me,
When I vanish into the mist,
And whisper into the ears of no one.

Alejandro Barton-Negreiros, ’23

Darling,

                        beautiful

            will never do you justice.
            Nothing I could ever say
            would describe you how you are.
            No word my lips could form would be

                        as smooth as you,
                        as soft as you,
                        as sweet a holy blessing
                        as the very thought of you.

Darling,

                        beautiful

            will never do you justice.
            To describe you would require
            something I cannot obtain—

                       for as your beauty
                       is that of the Heavens,
                       only the language of the stars
                       would describe you how you are.

Eryn Flynn, ’24

Walking in the open field of bodies,
Passing by passer bys,
Watching the watchers watching.
My eyes lock eyes with someone who didn’t look at me,
Seeing them witness me exist,
Feeling embarrassed for existing in their line of sight. 

I have never felt more scared to be witnessed,
Than through the eyes of someone I never knew,
Feeling like they saw me,
And saw something ugly and strange.
I can’t help but see the wrinkles,
Of judging eyes filled with sorrow,
And wonder what it was that stole the light in their eyes.

Was it me?
Am I a bad thing?
Am I wrong for existing?
Because they see me,
And they see the wrinkles in my eyes,
Seeing the same sorrow,
I wonder if they wonder the same things I do,
Feeling alone in a moment that meant nothing.

A million things could be happening in my mind,
A thousand other things to worry about,
And for a whole day I can only see those glaring eyes,
Making me want to hide in my darkened room, 
Knowing that they will be there the second I leave.

“It feels so embarrassing to be alive”

Behind eyes that witness me walk by,
I place my own flaws and hatefulness, 
Because what else could possibly see me?
Neither pairs of eyes can imagine what the other is thinking,
But we venture to guess and assume,
All in the endless pursuit to see those eyes,
That looks at us in wonder.

Alejandro Barton-Negreiros, ’23

you never let me draw you. ever since
i met you, i’ve been drawing you in my
mind but you’ve never let me before.
i like to draw people, especially the
ones i love and most of them don’t mind,
most of the time they think it’s sweet.
but you won’t let me
draw you. are you worried if i do,
that it’ll turn out ugly, or maybe
you just don’t like my drawing, or 
you just don’t like how you look?
are you afraid that i won’t do you justice?
oh, darling i can assure you, if only
i could, i swear i would capture
the starlight in your eyes, the moonlight
shining against your skin, the curve
of your chin and that wicked smile
of yours i know so well, and the
way your curls twist around your face,
as if to frame a work of art.
yes, i can assure you, if you ever let me
draw you, it would be a 
masterpiece.

Eryn Flynn, ’24

“¿Hola Vampiro? Lo siento, estamos aquí en Culebra pero olvidamos de traer sangre.”

Leaning back in a chair like this feels great when you’ve got some beer in your guts
Not those prissy, expensive, beach chairs that folks like us can’t afford with their “collapsibility”
But those cheap, white, plasticky pieces of shit with their (let me gesture a little)
Bendy rubber bands that melt right into your skin after you’ve been staring at the sun smiling.

Practically, basically, um, I brought El Vejigante out here today because I like the way he looks.

In the coastal sun of the islands by Vieques, he really glows when it’s about noon,
And the sand goes bone white so it starts to serve as a backdrop.
He’s got this massive fucking mask, something really fruity, covered in pink drooping flowers,
Band stickers, smoke stains, dazzling horns that frame his yelling face like a lion's mane,
And the fresh phone numbers written in stenchy permanent marker of the people who find him,
Sexy.

His eyes are glossed over as he lays back on a towel by my right, his hands protruding upwards,
Like a sleeping mutt,
Whimpering names of men and women I’d never thought he’d remember,
Like a bastard,
If I’m lucky he’ll start groaning about needing another drink as soon as he sleepwalks,
Like Zombie,
Digging his hands into the skin-warm sand of a 4-o’Clock bender, crawling mannishly,
Like Wendigo,
To the frost breathing cooler, his wooden teeth hushing whispers of Cerveza… Cerveza.

How can he always be so thirsty?

Chupacabra sleeps soundly despite our blaring speaker,
Curled up into a ball of scales, spines, and fangs,
She rests (as dogs do, unlike mutts),
To the rumbles of Yankee’s Reggaeton and Bunny’s Accent.
She’s had a full day of chasing frisbees and playing catch with goat heads from the market,
And even though she’d never pass up on the opportunity to stretch her aching incisors out,
She sleeps, happily, in the warmth of the too friendly sun.
Its orange tendrils like fingertips petting her scaly form into slumber,
The sunset coating her dreams of running amok in Baja as she’s lounging on this island,
Thousands of miles away from (and into) wherever she calls home.
But, with just one whiff of scented seltzer breath,
And the distant country acoustics of some late night dixie anthem drawls,
Beneath the light of a freshly risen Moon,
I could sense the tide of something gringo coming.

White, blond, and tomato red, these walking pasta plates marched up from the east of the beach,
Underneath a star spangled sky, they brought this sense of presence once again,
(Though their rifles now look more like expensive folding chairs and clamped up umbrellas, 
Their mechanisms lying in wait to SPRING and shock you with a microdose of colonization)
Flags planted on the sand,
Smiling faces above some land that isn’t theirs.

I almost let them live.

But one came over with his bleached, sultry, sand dusted hair, past our roaring trash fire,
His achillean body beckoning me to ask him what he keeps under those red swimming trunks,
And then, politely, like a fucking dick, he asked me to turn down the music.

Chupacabra beat me to it as she uncurled like a whip and lunged right at his bulging neck,
His jugular exploding into a mist of red moonshine as his throat, in tatters, fell onto the sand,
And then,
Right into my cocktail.

“¡Vampiro, ven aqui!”

Jorge Biaggi, ’23

i wish i could make you a bouquet
of daffodils, blue salvia, and spearmint
and then i’d be able to see your eyes
as they were truly meant to be seen,
glinting with curious joy

of daffodils, blue salvia, and spearmint
my thoughts on you take form
why do you only do things you care about
when you think no one can see you?
i wish you’d find joy in sunlight
like i in you

and then i’d be able to see your eyes
open, just so, the way they do
In the mornings before you’ve had your
ghastly cinnamon tea that’s much too spicy
for anyone to find comforting

as they were truly meant to be seen, 
they have just the tiniest bit of gold in them–
your eyes, i mean.

glinting with curious joy
i wish it would happen only for me,
no one else, as you stare at the bouquet
of daffodils, blue salvia, and spearmint
i picked just for you.

Micah Schmerling, ’25

divinity will be 
   a sweat-filled colosseum.
      transcendence 
         as corporeality—
            rolls of flesh will chafe 
               and part like 
                  an unseen scarlet sea.
                     red wine will 
                        seep from pores
                           untouched by the light 
                        of the fourth day.
                     imminent souls 
                  shall be predicated
               upon a gospel hymn:
            matthew mark luke and john
         will have never lain a finger
      on a body baptized
   by the prayer
of knowing.

Rin Carroll, ’24

Business-minded
Approached by three
Spitting poison, rolling boulders.
Ears pop and heads crack
Wheezing as my stomach collapses.
My body folds in on itself,
The origami of scrunched up paper.
Dizzy claws catch on the hot flashes
Of flushed fleshy faces.
Dipping and dodging
Ballooning and balling
We dive on top of one another,
A bloody fit of fists.
Slinging slurs to the black
Buzzing flies flooding my ears
Drowning in the breeze.
Block the sun, my fourth foe,
Grabbing at my collar
Tip-toeing; a drunken dancer
Blathering to the birds.
Mother’s wings are slow to show.
Raise me up on bed of birch,
Hand over hand laced with thread
I am whisked into the nurses bed.

Mary Saich, ’24

in the waiting room, pretending to write poetry to pass the time
there is one child yelling and the suffocating roar 
of too many people in too little space and too much pain 
a small tv cramped in the corner playing some reality show
people i don't know
     choosing some contestant i can't see
          for reasons i don't care about
    "it's like black mirror" you say
          the song so far removed from the singer
     the performer so far removed from their audience:
a surgical dehumanization of art.

something left you breathless
and i took you here breathless
pretending to write poetry so you see

          you are not a bother
          i want to be with you.

sometimes when we make plans, new ones are sprung on us
like a chance meeting at a bar 
  or
stumbling into the right group on a night out 
  or
your best friend getting dumped and needing 
someone to see their ex-partner's favorite band live 
  or
you 
 offered me 
  the empty 
   room 
    in 
     your apartment;
the part of the story we don't tell enough is when we say 
      yes.

  i could go home,
i would rather be in bed, one hour into sleep 
after some dessert, a hot shower 
and a few pages of a good book
like my unspoken plans from five hours ago;

  no, 
i would rather be in bed
with all those things
and you, in your bedroom
snoring soundly too

Colette Stergios, ’23

In all the meadows of deep red and purple,
We grew next to one another.
In all the times we could have blossomed,
We opened ourselves at the same time,
And from that moment on,
Our time was meant to be together.

Can’t we stay here together?
Care to watch the others bloom with me?
We take in the same rays of sunlight,
Our petals drip rain drops on each other,
Grow our roots tangled and tethered,
To pull one of us out would be to rip out the other.

While trees overhang and meadows spread on,
Oh look, a rose has snuck in between us.
All on its own and lacking a meal of sunlight,
We could look after it together,
We could move our pods out from over it,
And let it take some of the rain that falls,
Dripping a drop of rain from me to you to the roses pedals.

As we grow, it grows, and as the sun turns,
It will reach the same ray of sun we bask in,
And it will take in its own rain,
Blooming rose in a field of old lovers' hearts.
Spring will never be as joyous,
And winter will only be harder to endure,
But maybe by taking this rose as our own,
Withering will be that much sweeter.

Alejandro Barton-Negreiros, ’23