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A Double Dose, Maura Bennet ÌýÌý

Cruing In a Prius, Gabi Rudin

Darby, Maggie Joe Hernandez

Lindy, Samuel Hebner

GUESTBOOK, Megan Foley

five, Alex Nguyen

The last two pears, Emily Ingle

A Pity, Hannah Wold

Commuter, Claire Kooyman

Word Association Five Points, Toluwanimi Obiwole

XX, Sofie Lippman

Ìý

A Double Dose, Maura Bennet

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Oh darlingÌý

Purple ink seeps into under his skin and into his blood into elegant designsÌý

Purple hair, purple guns, purple beachesÌý

He said he doesn’t like much but he likes the you smell like purpleÌý

Ìý

Like a galaxy of violet bitten lipsÌý

Like the mosaic of the purple veins in his glassy eyesÌý

He only shows up at nightÌý

Like the Purple powdered eye shadow on Elegant San Francisco drag queensÌý

Ìý

Warm fingers on cold purple pelvic bonesÌý

Like the bundles of lilacs thrown into beautiful purple baskets and given to ladies withÌýÌý

Withering purple fingersÌý

Tracing purple bruise stains from his kissed collarbonesÌý

Ìý

Until he’s close enough to drain the purple from inside youÌý

Enough to overfill a single bathÌý

With gallons of your sweet purpleÌýkool-aidÌý

And your emptyÌý

Ìý

White purpleÌýtechnicolorÌýdreams turned black holesÌý

And withering purple fingers turn black and dustedÌýÌý

While he pours a tall glass of your purple for some other girlÌý

And you chase down shots of blackÌý

Ìý

Oh darlingÌý

How exciting it was while it lasted, no?Ìý

Ìý

Cruing In a Prius, Gabi Rudin

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At some point they will vomit in your mouthÌý

And expect you to swallowÌý

This is goodÌý

 Ìý

Ripping off a young scabÌý

Peeling a green bananaÌý

Burning a tongue on hot soupÌý

 Ìý

If you know your heart can fall into your stomachÌý

Are you supposed to sit with your eyes closed in theÌýdarkÌý

Walk backwards your whole life?Ìý

 Ìý

You cradle your knees in your chest with your back faced to your loverÌý

in the back seat of a PriusÌý

watching overweight owners walk their dogs past your windowÌý

 Ìý

There are some people you are too nice toÌý

and because you have such monster lungsÌý

you swallow more airÌý

Ìý

Darby, Maggie Joe Hernandez

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1.Ìý

This is how to be happy, she tells me. This is how to breathe.Ìý

She spreads orange jam onto a warm scone and shoves it in her mouth,Ìý

Carefully wiping crumbs from the corners of her lips with a napkin.Ìý

Ìý

I’m drinking tea that I can't afford and missing home. I say,ÌýÌý

Why do my guts hurt?Ìý

Ìý

She says,ÌýsomosÌýextranjeros.Ìý

Ìý

2.Ìý

This is how to do aÌýsquat,Ìýthis is how to lunge.ÌýÌý

I have a problem with sticking my ass where it doesn’t belong.ÌýÌý

The next day my legs ache so hauntingly, I crash down onto the toilet seat.Ìý

Ìý

3.Ìý

We watch dogs run for ninety minutes.Ìý

We talk about food and the things we craveÌý

We talk about sex.Ìý

Ìý

A young boy in a yamaka climbs to the top of the structure,Ìý

A girl with a lunchbox swings.Ìý

A big dog uses the water fountain.Ìý

Ìý

4.Ìý

She tells me to walk until I feel better,Ìý

Don't stop walking.Ìý

Ìý

Through the park and down the street, men adore her bouncy hair.Ìý

It’s july and her shoulders are bare.ÌýÌý

It’s winter down here,ÌýÌý

and people shout from cars.Ìý

Ìý

5.Ìý

My head is muddled with incomplete sentences andÌý

Ideas I can't comprehend.ÌýÌý

I’m forgetting words that I know, chasing them for days.Ìý

Ìý

And so we walk Echev with our feet skimmingÌýÌý

over puddles of the morning’s storm.Ìý

Ìý

6.Ìý

In the middle of a busy antique marketÌýÌý

on a day as dim as feelings,Ìý

I smell her hair like sugar.Ìý

She says,Ìý

I’ll see you soon?Ìý

Ìý

Lindy, Samuel Hebner

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She had a smile thatÌý

Leaned back in its chairÌý

Conceded in its knowledgeÌý

That behind it lay somethingÌý

Capable of betteringÌýÌý

The both of you.ÌýÌý

Cool eyes thatÌý

Matched your gaze with anÌý

Easy comfort let you in onÌý

TheÌýsecret that you areÌý

NotÌýalone in your thoughts.Ìý

And her hair,Ìý

ÌýPerfectly matchingÌý

TheÌýroom and the air withÌý

EveryÌýmove that it rarely made,Ìý

And her eyes,Ìý

Fixed on me in thisÌýÌý

ParticularÌýmoment of time.Ìý

Love, and relativityÌý

Ìý

GUESTBOOK, Megan Foley

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iÌýgo to the saltwater gardenÌýÌý
fed up on black foodÌý
chewing like a television dogÌý
don’t mind me or the mudÌýÌý
or the bottles of blueberry wineÌý
we’ve come to welcome youÌý
to the factory victoryÌý
the conductor’s goneÌýÌý
just goneÌý

five, Alex Nguyen

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step 5. leaves are verdant, crinkled ruffles blushing saffron and chipped, almondsÌý
–sits,Ìý
frozen. glimmering glass, and considers bright white driving slowly by, a relief.Ìý
Ìý
step 4. words like fire, blistering, whimpers falls freely from throat, thin door, a veilÌý
–etches,Ìý
black on white on blue. sweet promises, dreams of engines, stolen breath, warmth.Ìý
Ìý
step 3.Ìýdecember, pale frost lace, a generate rush, firm howl, neon sign flickersÌý
–treads,Ìý
chiming bells, feet tap worn wood. alert eyes, a pause; no impact, and turns away.Ìý
Ìý
step 2. locker room, ice floors in late spring; a small mouse, curious, quivering humanÌý
–searches,Ìý
chemicals line the shelves. warnings, no toxicity. no escape, no way out, just out of reach.Ìý
Ìý
step 1. the flowers have died. smoldering lungs, inhale, exhale, muscles ache, tears and iciclesÌý
–imagines,Ìý
river slush, slowed puffs of air. beautiful mists, a last sight. silence, pure, eternal.Ìý
Ìý
step 0. late summer, syrupy heat, sneers, so, so familiar, too much. says nothingÌý
–shakes,Ìý
words echoing, these arrows point the knife. it traces skin, soft, to fall. scarlet ink.Ìý
Ìý
a note:Ìý
iÌýam lying to you.Ìý

Ìý

The last two pears, Emily Ingle

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SinceÌýbeforeÌýyou arrivedÌý

theyÌýsheltered, somehowÌý

the last two pearsÌýof late summerÌýÌý

behindÌýemergencyÌýsardine tinsÌý

rice and barleyÌýat the backÌý

of the tallest cupboard. The pearsÌý

you wouldn’t even eat with pure darkÌý

chocolateÌýganache, sea salt andÌýalmondÌýflakesÌýÌý

poached in honey and white wineÌý

vanilla and ginger. Still too bitter.Ìý

The pears are, of course, bad. BlueÌý

puckered skin and pools of stickyÌý

fizzing flesh, alive with fruit flies,Ìý

nibs of two sunken stalks. I will eat themÌý

both whole, one after the other, swallowedÌý

without sugar or wine. I will waitÌýÌý

for fur to coat my insides, to rotÌý

my stomach intoÌýready earth.Ìý

I will not spit out the stalksÌý

until something sprouts.Ìý

Ìý

A Pity, Hannah Wold

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At night I changeÌý

With my light onÌý

To make myself feelÌý

Daring and I can’t decideÌý

If going EastÌý

Will be a blood pressureÌýÌý

Cuff or a chanceÌý

To ditch the shores of thisÌýÌý

Prehistoric sea and I’m gaspingÌý

For routine because if I can’t passÌý

For a shot at divinity then I mustÌý

Return these clothesÌýÌý

to the emperor, and I pityÌý

myself, a ridiculous wasteÌýÌý

of pity when rehab and chemo and clubsÌý

in Florida are spittingÌýÌý

out people who used to be children.ÌýÌý

Ìý

Commuter, Claire Kooyman

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There exists withinÌýtheÌýtrueÌýsilences Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý ÌýWhen someone entersÌý

something very loud, Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìýsomewhere in the caves underground,Ìý

that is wanting cicada technobabble Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìýwhere the whistling is heaviestÌý

(the sound of small masses rioting in the trees), Ìý Ìý Ìý ÌýÌýsomewhere underneath the bay,Ìý

or tunnel music, Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý ÌýÌý Ìý Ìý ÌýÌýbreakingÌýtheÌýsessionÌý

made of the hissings of metal and air, Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý ÌýofÌýour silent churchÌý

toÌýstopÌýit from ever reachingÌýus. Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý ÌýÌýworshiping at the clamor,Ìý

Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý ÌýÌýour eyes follow them in cold unison.Ìý

There is aÌýtrainÌýdriver somewhere far aheadÌý

in a car thatÌýIÌýwill never see, Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý ÌýNo known mystics exist andÌý

aÌýstranger who holdsÌýmyÌýsafety, Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý ÌýÌý ÌýÌýwe are probably alone,Ìý

andÌýthatÌýof theÌýothers Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý ÌýÌýbutÌýwaterÌýstill remains,Ìýunnamed,Ìý

willing to enter the doors Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý ÌýaÌýbeautiful, harsh and rushingÌýgodÌý

and tolerate each otherÌýforÌýa while, Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý ÌýÌýcutting into peninsulas, creating inlets.Ìý

whose bodies are closeÌýto mine, whose hands Ìý Ìý Ìý ÌýÌý

cling toÌýcold metal with clammy fingertips. Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý ÌýWe may not know the namesÌýÌý

What warmth we breathe is communal air Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìýof the firmÌýgodsÌýof the earthÌý

thatÌýwe brought from the train station Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìýthat worshipersÌýonce foundÌý

together as a group. Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìýdwelling in sod and oakÌý

Still, ourÌýminds live somewhere else. Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìýbut sometimesÌýÌý

Where-Ìýa questionÌýoneÌýmust never ask. Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý ÌýÌýwe canÌýstillÌýhear themÌý

the realms of the mind in silent spaces Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý ÌýÌýsingingÌý

are sacrosanctÌýÌý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý in strange places.Ìý

and secret. Ìý

Ìý

Word Association Five Points, Toluwanimi Obiwole

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Dry cleaner sushi jointÌý

Jazz club liquor storeÌýÌý

Homeless man watches white millennial walk her bike into his grandmother’s old houseÌýÌýÌý

Dispensary guard fondles gunÌý

Corner store lady knows all the storiesÌýÌý

Black owned white-attendedÌýÌý

Heritage center closed for cleaningÌýÌý

Boarded up home family inside cookingÌý

Real estate building up for leaseÌýÌý

Broken glass swept under construction fenceÌýÌý

A man approaches me for a picture pulls out some tired onesÌýÌý

Wants someone else to know his name and see himÌýÌý

Ìý

XX, Sofie Lippman

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UsedÌýmy index fingerÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌý to nail an xÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌý to endÌýthe itch ofÌýÌý

ÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌý aÌýhorseflyÌýkissÌý

Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìýcrossed hatched skinÌýÌý

Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý ÌýIÌýhearÌýthere’s one hundredÌýfliesÌýwhere there’s one.ÌýÌý