Poetry

By Kellen Gaither

Chocolate limbs twisted together 
soft, plush thighs against muscled, toned arms 
wide noses bumping into each other 
brown eyes meeting  
plump lips kissing 
this was love. 
Skin so dark and smooth  
there was no telling where one began and the other ended 
beauty beyond skin that touched the roots of the soul 
ebony love that made ebony babies 
ebony love that brought together ebony nations 
ebony love that smelled like coconut butter and vanilla 
so sweet, so deep, so gentle 
so in love. 

By Katie Anderton

I am a dream misplaced in a sea of thoughts. 
Waves like rain wash reveries away. 
I am wolves in the night feeding on life, 
catching the heavens and dressing them with snow. 
I am a thousand years old with nowhere to go. 
I am gray and I gray with each fleeting day. 
I am small towns in blank spaces, 
and you, well, you are faraway places. 
But you are the space, 
a galaxy of stains and lost airplanes 
that flew too close to the stars and burst into flames. 
And we are the chaos that steadies the night, 
disrupts the planets and destroys satellites. 
We are tragic 
and love to watch what tragedy does. 
Forevermore, never more than a dream. 

By Kris Indermaur 

Cut your hair short. 
Give yourself some nice fringe bangs. 
Dye your hair red like the fire  
that threatens to come out of your mouth.  
Scream out lyrics from thank u, next on repeat 
watching your tears stream down your face. 
Throw away your pictures. Throw away their clothes.  
Don't give them back. 
Burn them. 
Wear different clothes  
that would upset your ex 
if you wore them out in public 
or on your dates— 
yes, the low-cut shirts,  
the short-shorts—  
those clothes.  
Lose ten pounds so they envy you. 
Go out with your friends.  
Don't think about how much it hurts.  
Make them think that you won. 

By Rachel Close

Wrapped around each other 
like serpents constricting  
their prey, 
squeezing their lives 
into each other, 
intertwining souls, 
slithering around  
each other’s necks, 
harder, each compresses 
the other’s heart  
into a compacted phenomenon, 
something one can carry around  
in a pocket, 
something one can wear  
on a sleeve. 
With each life braided  
into the fabric of the other, 
with each soul pressed 
into one tangible experience, 
how can we tell 
who is who? 

By Max Jensen

A word in the mouth of a bird 
on the page of a book in the world. 
 
Singing’s not the same when speaking  
is an option but a note is consequential 
to a species and its daydreams.  

A bird in the mouth of a world 
on a book of the page in the word.