Category: Poetry

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

As dead as the sky
The wind blows wildly
And won’t let me go
I swirl and dive
Scratching the soil
I spiral and twist
I flutter and fly
As my heart grows steady
The wind then drops me
I fall to the ground
My life flashing before my eyes
Sputtering to my death
I close my eyes and hug my chest
I keep my legs firm and straight
As I plummet down to the ground
All hope is lost
Fear replaces my pride
I begin to wither away
Free as a bird
Chained like a dog
I repeat life’s horrid circle
My heart is cracked
Wide enough for the world to see
All my pain and all my misery
Who would have thought
That your words could sting
Striking me down
To the ground
Onto my deathbed
Is where I’m heading now
You were my friend
Or so I thought

But you played me like I was some puppet
You pulled the strings
You tied to my back
Manipulating
My every step
My every move
Your motivation
Caused me my stress

I look for help but you just yank me down

I try to hide
But with no success
I plan to die

-Alexandra Molloy, ’21

Live from Puerto Escondido 1/21/21 @21hrs

Travis inspired me with his song about strange ass. That song does fuck, if y’all missed it I’m sorry. I write haiku, this is a string of haiku about nudes. If you like any of this feel free to send some my way. I’m single and also egalitarian so ladies shoot your shot.

Through ones and zeros
A divine apparition
Illuminated

By eons old rock
Pink hue strikes Aphrodite
She is enveloped

A glimpse of her form
Hot damp mist of the shower
Clinging to her chest

Ethereal corpse
The vessel with which you move
Within and without

Consider this too
The mirrors soft gaze
And your own brown eyes

Curious about
His approachable darkness
She does not tremble

delicate being
A graceful calla Lilly
Laid in my presence

Okay this ones kinda fucked up, but I’m happy with it how it turned out. Essentially I watched a person get hit by traffic and decided to cope in a productive and ultimately funny way. If you’re a grammar nerd like me you’ll love this.

That there, is a man
Who’s come to terms with being
And all that entails

Those are his entrails
He walked right into the street
And unbe’d himself

Okay wow. How about we break this morbidity up with some more half humor half real talk. This ones about a dream I had. It gets explicit and is mildly bestial so be prepared.

Take me now; Dream whale
I’ll ride you through the cosmos
Undress my conscious

Erotic dreamwhale
Lingerie made of black holes
And galactic lace

My deepest desire
Familiar longing, haunting
My mind while I sleep

Reverent orca
We fall into each other
And we become one

You and I are we
And we escape to depths
Infinitely deep

Journey of the mind
And knowing you are within
I wake and begin

Alright in the interest of keeping it short and engaging this will be my last one. Thank you for indulging me!

This first true spring day
That moon tho; she be gleamin’
She a gleamy ho

Like the greatest bling
Gleamin’ o’er yon orchard hill
Witness her, my dude.

Watch her pass to day
The gleamy ho that she be
Gaze on our crowns, moon

Next set 1/28

Hey wow wow wow hello everybody I’m super glad to be here. Mega props everybody let’s hear it for Travis who does this out of his own edification and the goodness in his heart let’s hear it come on guys. What a pure soul, buy his book and tip the bar staff, these mojitos are fire am I right?

My name is Daniel. I’m an artist and I work in a bunch of different mediums, my favorite verbal medium is the haiku which is really short, just three lines of 5,7 and 5 syllables.

This is a very meta poem, okay if anybody’s ever been to a Michelin starred restaurant or a chef’s tasting, they’ll usually start you off with a little bite called an amuse bouche which literally translates to joyful or amused mouth. So this is to get you ready for the rest of the menu ok here it is.

You don’t like sweet things
Personally, I love them
You are very sweet

Thank you.

Ok this one I’m gonna need a beat. Travis can I get something like this

*rapping now*

Donde esta la bibliotheca?
Me llamo Daniel y me gusta zicatela
Tela, tella I’m a hell of a fella
Soy estudiante and my grades are stellar

Quando, nosotros, jugamos baloncesta
I score the game point, but I’m not here to impress ya.

Okay that’s enough of that, I’m gonna switch gears here and read you some haiku that I wrote. If you notice your stockings are wet right now or you can’t stop quivering all of a sudden that is perfectly normal. And you should buy me a mojito afterwards.

This is one I wrote about a french woman that I was seeing and very inspired by. She may come here to Mexico, I may lure her here with my poems. The 14 year old theater nerd inside of me is like “yeah poetry is great, words get me blowjobs”

lol what a nerd. Anyways here’s a sexy one for this extra attractive audience.

The air is heavy
And the moon slowly waxes
A foggy August eve

Amidst the clouds
I lap ‘round my neighborhood
My mind is heavy

Entomb me in your
Graceful femininity
Drown me in your thighs

I wander around
Beneath the celestial
Starlit canopy

caressing my face
The breeze whispers Marianne
And my knees buckle

Okay this is where a nice smooth transition would happen if I had one. Unfortunately I just haven’t written one so I have to work with this. *drink very slowly* yeah I should really write something to go here.

No obviously I’m joking, i would never come onstage without having scripted my transitions already so I don’t look like I’ve never done this.

This poem is about my afternoon trying to find mezcal at Mercado Benito Juarez. I’ve been here two weeks and assumed they sell mezcal everywhere however they don’t at Benito Juarez… unless you know who to ask.

Wandering around
La Mercado in centro
We see a man smile

Standing before us
Behind his abundant wares
We stop to ask him

Where is the mezcal?
An unmarked 5 liter jug
Is pulled from below

He pours a sample
Smooth vibrant complexity
“How much for the jug?”

We broker a deal
And buy grapefruit, orange, mint
He asks for our names

Me llamo Daniel
I stare him dead in the eyes
Me gusta perros

Im gonna leave you guys with really warm feelings, this poem was written in November in Western Massachusetts. It’s beautiful out there and the seasons change was toward the later end of autumn. I wrote this when the wind was blowing and I walked alone across the huge campus.

The weather grows cold
Too cold for wildflowers
Too cold for most things

Not too cold for love
Sheltered from the elements
In comfy sweaters

Nourished by hot cocoa
And cherished muffled laughter
And warm sentiments

Thanks you guys I love being here.

Set three Feb 4th

Hi guys can you hear me? Snap your fingers if you can hear me? Okay welcome everybody, like Travis said I’m gonna perform some haiku. If you need a little refresher on what that is I gotchu.

Haiku is a three line poem that has 5 syllables in the first line, 7 in the second and 5 again in the third. Anybody can do them, I like to write them when I’m waiting in line for anything instead of touching my phone for the thousandth time that day. They are a nice way to stay present.

And also I like to string them together to capture a more involved moment. You can also write jokes I just discovered after like 19 years of writing them.

Recently at lunch
My friend Ricardo asked me
you like fried pork skin?

It’s not for me man
I said, but to each their own
Yeah man chicharron

Thank you. So there you have it, very simple, they usually feature nature in some way which I find romantic. I think there’s an inherent romantic quality in the natural world. The way a wave crashes or a fire moves or smoke dissipates. So this haiku follows that theme.

Across the campfire
A roiling red inferno
You blow me a kiss

Your dark glassy eyes
Harboring eons of night
You uncross your legs

I grin my white teeth
The flames lick the palm above
And a soft wind lilts

You shrug your shoulders
your sundress slides soundlessly
Formless on the sand

I unwrap my robe
We laugh and sprint joyously
Into the black surf

Thank you. Before I came here I never performed my works but now I’m starting to love it because I get a reaction and an energy from the audience. One of you just gave me one of these *closes eyes and tilts head back while fanning my face with my hand* and it’s either because you were in that last one with me or you’re tired I can’t tell but either way I felt a tingle up my spine and I fucking love it.

Anyways last semester in the fall I was one of the very few students on campus at UMass amherst and there’s not much to do in a global pandemic so one of my roommates started to fold paper cranes as stress relief. Well I wanted to see if they floated like a real crane might, so I plopped one in a glass of water thinking if it were a real crane this is what it would want! Right? So… this is what happened.

Crane floats in water
Made of paper it dissolves
Fates cruel humor laughs

Transcending its form
Unfolding in nirvana
It ceases to be

How funny it is
That which we desire most
Is our undoing

Thank you, yes there we have it folks. By the way if you like my poetry I will gladly trade you for a mojito. Yes that’s right you could walk out of here with your very own Daniel Keating original so come hangout I’m very approachable and I crave external validation haha.

So as a writer one of my responsibilities is to carry on the great tradition of wandering aimlessly in introspective thought and last time I was here and a woman’s gaze snapped me out of that for a second and this one is to her, wherever she is.

Can I sit with you?
Will you tell me I’m pretty
Will you grab my hand?

Can we share a look?
Can I wrap my arms round you
And say I’m smitten

Are you here tonight
Have you felt like me before?
Do you feel it now?

I’d like to meet you
To start something beautiful
Do you like poems?

This is my final haiku it’s very short. I wrote this before I moved to manhattan and pursued my career in fashion. So here it is:

Reoccurring dream
That I move to the city
And model all day

Pet chameleon
Tells me to eat more pasta
True that dream lizard.

Thank you guys I love being here.

Set 4 Feb/18/2020

What’s up lovers? I said what’s up lovers? May the blessings of the infinite be upon you. And upon us all am I right? Anybody feeling particularly fertile tonight? I know I am.

I came here tonight to bathe in your energy and perform some haiku like Travis said. Haiku is a type of poem, they’re very short only 3 lines. The first line has 5 syllables, the second has 7, the last line has five. Like this

A dismal mizzle
Drizzling abysmally;
Haggard and grizzl’d

I wrote that one about the rain. I tend to write about nature, most haiku features it in some way and so rain and the moon seems to pop up frequently for me. But you can really write them about anything, this one is about walking through a peach orchard in the winter time.

Sun lights the orchard
Reflects off the snowy ground
Onto the peach buds

Thank you. Okay those were just warm ups, I prefer to string haiku together to tell a more whole picture of a moment or thought like this. The other night I was looking up at the moon and was really loving it so I thought what if the stars were men and women who were lured by the moons beckoning.

I wake in the night
To your familiar bare back
Your dark unlit hair

sitting up restless
I walk toward the veranda
Cool tile underfoot

Through the precipice
Beneath arcane tapestry
I soliloquize

The gilded moonlight
Unspoken umbral lover
The ancient orb calls

Velvet canopy
A great harem in the sky
Helpless, I ascend

Wait! My love! You cry
Your hand lassos my ankle
Balanced on the rail

Silver siren foiled
The sky will not gain a star
You are my tether

-Daniel “don’t try this at home kids” Keating jr., ’22

stretchy pants and a black and white striped crop top, cinched
always comfort over fashion, monochromatic over bold

i catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror
i chopped my hair off, something like, eight inches
something like, the third step of a breakup
the fourth is probably vodka and a sweaty basement

i remove the royal blue, 99 cent ice pack from my broken toe and,
fearing nothing, shove my feet into brand new Doc Martin’s
collecting my hair back into a low bun, we walk out the front door

i skip down the cracked, concrete sidewalk yelling catch up! and
if i miss any of Northwest Fox’s set, i swear, y’all won’t live to see the light of day!
there’s silence, my boot scuffs the sidewalk as i turn to walk backwards
cars fly by, headlights casting strobe-like shadows on ryan
his mouth cupped with both hands how’s the toe?!

it’s always the same from the road, a seemingly normal, shitty college house
but when we walk through the front door into the garage
bulb string lights line the wooden walls and lead us to the basement
vibrations from amps and voices creep up the staircase plummeting into my chest

we run down the steep cement stairs, met with an expanding and shrinking crowd
they move as one, as if music is the lateral line, a sixth sense
attached by strings and chords, all things brassy and filled with reverb i’m sucked in
and swallowed whole into a mass of faces i’ve never known, yet, somehow, have never felt closer to

we curve through the crowd, weaving our way toward the heart
of the house, toward the voice, the bass
where the blue and red show lights glow and exchange
our sorrows for euphoria

my body takes charge, reacting to the sounds in ways I never would’ve thought of
elbows brush up against my arms and i grab someone’s hand
he spins me around to meet his gaze i like your shoes

we dance like we know each other, like
we lived, breathed and bled these footsteps long ago
when all things organic and natural would melt into place,
back into the earth, like we planned on it

when the music’s over, we flood out from all crevices of the house, like ants
sitting in the driveway on the cold cement, i look up at the stars and they stretch
and bend together like someone took an hour long exposure of the night sky
and just left it there, projected into the universe, for us all to admire
i close my eyes i think his name was cam

-Catherine Buckley

Wading 

Through a sea of gushing moss and glitter algae 
Sticking to luscious goosepimple skin freshly wetted 
Flesh dumped out into an ocean of touchy frothy bead 
Churning together as little bits of microscopic self 
Float within a muddled aquarium of opalescent eyelid screens 

I Am Waiting 

Infinity starts in the Eczema of an unknown skylight 
Bumping on the flesh of dark matter left shadowed from abjugation 
It relishes in the anonymity that is bred with a brushing fingertip 
The jealous copulation of an anemone’s polyp flow 
That is a corporeal stretch towards some point-zero horizon. 

Walking 

Away from any sort of starlight knowing 
From the earthly constitutions of mind-over-matter-over-self 
Humanity needn’t understand the mysteries that lie beyond Phobos 
They Needn’t Worry 
For the nothing-nowhere liberation that comes with aquamarine 

Is Space Dust, 

Still left undiscovered 
And to You 
Still fresh with the possibility 
That comes with the lustful prospect 
Of an Eternity painted Blue.

-Jorge Biaggi, ’23

silk and vines mold into his frame
flirt with skin and pointy elbows,
scratch ankles, tangle laces

look him in the eyes, tired wrinkles, gloss
his bare shoulder shows
a tattoo on young, stretchy canvas
touch it and it would bounce back

soft and patient sleep

his eyelids droop
while delicate traces of our Mother
recollect him

-Catherine Buckley

rainbow umbrellas, 
cheap folding beach chairs, 
and bright red, plastic coolers 
scatter and mark territories 

waves crash, the water 
thins and stretches out, 
shrinking back into itself, pulling sand, pebbles and tiny white seashells in with it 

the sand, a damp tan 
where the saltwater made its mark, revealing the power of the moon 
from earlier that day 

salty air tangles my hair 
while I sit on top 
of my faded green “Life is Good” towel raking the sand through my fingers forming circular grooves around me 

hypnotized — I look down 
at the multiple spirals I’ve made 
and wonder 
what song I would’ve created 
if the earth were vinyl 
and I were its needle

-Catherine Buckley

Toss me in the tumult
Let me bleed without pain

I want no cozy cavern
Packed away safe and still

Let mourners come to a beaten rock
Let apparitions tickle the horizon
Let wet eyes wonder

Send my atoms headlong into the gyre
Fold me back into the soup

Let the crabs have their fill
I will taste through their tongues
Breathe in the brine

Let a hot August sky suck me up 
and a cool September pour me out

Let me rest without place
decay without trace

-Sophia Larson, ’23

Thick Louisiana air smacks my skin and says
honey, time moves so slow here even the river strolls.
And so I roll up my sleeves to welcome the mud,
not knowing that we were already old friends.

We ride through New Orleans neighborhoods in the back of pick-up trucks
while we pass by homes without walls and dogs without collars.
In some houses, all that’s left is the plumbing, a singular bathroom sink.
We try to keep our balance going over bumps,
avoiding dumpsters and piles of bricks, branches, drywall, and siding.
The bed of the truck creaks under our weight.
A maroon Chevy lays stuck between cement and a loblolly pine.

I look out from the balcony decorated with beach chairs and familiar faces
while an orange hue seeps through the street lights and into the night sky.
In the morning I hammer nails into wood into blue tarps into roofs.
The vibrations shudder up my arm but
we cannot have leaking leaving brown splotches that cost too much.
In turn for our work that feels less like work and more like faith
we receive bags of salty chips and slow, southern thank you’s.

And so I read notes left on wooden bunk beds telling me
about how a city can change a person,
about how we must trust the process and timing of life,
about how moments and places like these
will show you some sort of something,
whatever it is that you may be looking for,
but I don’t write mine.

I don’t write mine until the ceiling cracks from the weight of my ancestors.
I don’t write mine until the light shining in from my window fades to a static grey.
I don’t write mine until I’m home again with a roof and walls and it does not feel like a home.

Time moves much quicker here.

-Catherine Buckley

There-
The soft green-gray misting of a tropical backyard.

The cement floors, old construction, wooden, sheet metal tool hut and,
Rain… softly.

Pleasant cascade, a blanket of refreshment,
The place of home on the isle.

I walk out,
Flip-flops, small splashes,
No shirt, just shorts, warm-water-falling,
5-minutes shower, carribean typical.

The Sun, not hiding, not shy, just behind the foggy,

for a moment
The house behind me is tall, on stilts, we are on a mountain, surrounded by palm tree, vine, and
lush.
Steep incline, but vegetation abound, peaks in the distance,
The whiff of brown dirt, and fallen coconut,
Moistened palm branch, and rounded guanábana,
Cracked soda, indoor steam,

It’s family here.

Concrete, wood doors, metal bars on windows,
Rails, colored cement, cool tile floor, air conditioning, heat, but not dry, and
Soft couches, never silky, they don’t need to be smooth, they’re kind.

-Jorge Biaggi, ’23

-Anastasia Helen Santoso, ’23

Rings in my bones
Orange in my lungs

I once had spongey, sea green flesh

I pissed in the sand,
Goaded the waves, 
Battled the tide,
content that I would lose. 

On a Sunday, the ocean came knocking
with imported skys
and electric sea foam

I answered. 

Knowing I would only be choked while my lungs had air
and cold until my hot blood chased it away

I grew gnarled in surrender.
Gnarled. 
With pink flowers and calloused buds. 

I have no more use for my salt hardened skin
Or my knotted bones

Rings in my bones
Orange in my lungs

I once had spongey, sea green flesh

I pissed in the sand,
Goaded the waves, 
Battled the tide,
content that I would lose. 

On a Sunday, the ocean came knocking
with imported skys
and electric sea foam

I answered. 

Knowing I would only be choked while my lungs had air
and cold until my hot blood chased it away

-Sophia Larson, ’23

I had a dream 

I was Taylor Swift’s best girl, riding the wave of normalcy, living under my parents’ name. I asked her if she’d want my spare bedroom to be decorated so she could put her feet to rest. I wanted her to relax. The flashing lights are not your best friend, and neither is your biggest fan. 

I had a dream 

I was in a well-lit prison, where there was no sight of grey. Only the silver ash of my best friend, a clairvoyant getting slivers of images to my freedom. She painted the landscapes I’d get over in my journey to civilization. The prison guard took them away, then slipped them under the pillow the night of my escape. 

I had a dream

I was kidnapped, in the land next to Wiccalocan, the private school of my dreams. I told them I liked it when they touched me, that they were my family. My best friend took the spare iPod and recorded our location, looking for some wifi to connect to to call for our help. 

I had a dream 

I was invited to a party at a cabin in the woods, with pretty blonde girls. I couldn’t see their faces. I really wanted to. Ask them if it’s too much, when the boys bothered them for some fun. I couldn’t stand the taste of rum and coke. The coke was too sweet. 

I had a dream 

I was yours. You, the one with soft words and harsh eyes. Scanning my x-ray-worthy bones, milky calcium and innocent eyes. Give me your sap, your shame, and I will give you my naked truth. 

Was it a dream? 

When you asked me what I really meant by that?

Was it really a dream? 

The glow in your eyes when I challenged you, or was it really true? 

Toppled like lego bricks, you build in my body like a benign cancer. 

I’m trynna be down, but all you do is build me up.

Was it worth washing me down in your cup? 

What is it about me that makes you bow down? Yet tackle me like they do in the Superbowl? 

I had a dream 

I won prom queen. Wasn’t a dream but  sure felt like it. A sensitive poet, at the top of something, not quite sure if ever useful of evermore life’s woes. A crown sits on my head, and on top is the halo you placed on that heavy thing. Heart as light as a feather, the serpent in my womb slithering all over your snake. 

I had a vision

Of a snake, coiled up and shiny black, like silicon black silly putty. Speaking of, you turn me into something like that. My words flow out like poetry when I am with you, my body’s muscle memory uncovering the angelic facade I carefully created to avoid incrimination around the reptiles. I hope they can’t tell how much I want to be defiled by your hungry fingers. 

I had a dream 

You were my poet. Mine, like Taylor Swift sung. I used to hate that bitch; now I see her light as if a spell was cast on me. 

Speaking of, do you believe in ghosts? 

Or only the things you cannot see?

When you said you didn’t believe in souls, 
I saw something shine in your chest. 
I called it mine. 

FOrm form form
Right, if I am your poet.
Or if you are mine

I cannot go on covering my shameful lust with pride
It might be fear, clinging on like mice
On the side of the road, 
Two tiny kittens hugging in an oyster
Clasped on my skin
Clashing dissonance
Is all poetry? 
There is no such thing as sense with you
No so much deadbeat
Or even Beat Poetry
Flappers with wings
You said my wings,
You said, you said 

Stretch it out, they said
(You said) 
It left you feeling hung, 
I’m trynna get you sprung

Anyways, the poetry must, well, you see, 
It must not be so fast, so elusive like it’s fleeting away
Ballet flats, strings intertwining light as my heart
(too fluffy)
I hate you, God!
(too aggressive)
I want you 
(too… porno…)

make sure it makes sense, 
people don’t like torture, 
I beg to differ. 

I’m scared of a lot of things
And a lot of things is you

-Samantha Liu, ’21

In pale starlight, the Gardener danced
Uneasy steps in foreign trance,
Following absolution’s thread,
Fearing desertion: puppet’s dread.
But on she dances, smiling wide,
While Luna’s pull dictates the tide,
And Sol looks on from today’s edge,
For in the void, all parties pledge
Allegiance to each other’s pull:
A vice-grip on the Gardener’s skull.
She only wishes to be free,
To dance like comets in the sea
Of stars that lie beyond her binds—
She wonders what out there she’d find
If she could break her ties with Sol,
Instead explore places untold.
But to Sol, she’s forever bound,
Constantly dancing ‘round and ‘round
A greedy ball of gas and flame,
Sucking her in to burn again—
Each pass she makes, barely a miss,
Forever stuck in loathsome tryst.
Daily perform her dance she must,
Though Solfire could make her dust,
For in the searing heat of Sol,
She keeps her garden from the cold,
And without Sol, the Gardener fears
A nothingness beyond her years.
So chained to Sol she has to stay,
For as the night melts into day,
Her flowers bloom, her creatures rouse,
Unaware of their Gardener’s vows

-Ethan Kinal, ’21

I write because of things like postcards / I write
because they fall out of things like the crease of my
favorite book / where I keep my place / and they
remind me of things / like the time that we spent
together / that day

at the airport / we spent nearly five minutes deciding
which postcard we wanted during our layover that ate
away hours in time only measurable by tic-tac-toe / so
much tic-tac-toe / and cut-throat polish poker

we shuffled through the postcards / running our
fingers over each and every one/ I picked this one
because of the sparkles / you picked me because of my
devotion to words

you put the card on the counter and turned to look
back at me / you told me that we were only once in a
lifetime but that someday somewhere you hope to meet
me again in another / for the third time / and then we
left North Carolina

-Catherine Buckley