Her Story Is Strange
Posted by Lauren Yates | Filed under Poetry, Print
There’s something about the post-punk silence of nighttime that makes me doubt my soul. That makes me define things in terms of what they follow instead of what they are. Someday, I hope my life will be as interesting as a rock-and-roll portrayal of history. Something to be envied. Something to be admired for its brilliant art direction and cinematography, but panned for its lackluster script. In simpler terms, something boring but pretty. But I’ll only be in it for the costumes. And the one critic who will understand and say, “Her story is strange. At night she levitates above her bed. She’s over the age of sixteen, but she’s still not a witch yet. Kudos for not succumbing to clichés.”
One Night
Posted by Alysia Harris | Filed under Poetry, Print
The night fought with itself
like a thing that fights
in the night.
It could not see who it fought in the dark.
All it could see was it was dark,
Could see the skin of the dark.
The night fought the moon with a night stick
in the dark
One night, two moons ago.
Two moons ago, one night
the moon fought the dark.
It was a pale moon.
The moon looked like a moon
full of rocks.
The moon loved the night
It threw itself at the night.
The moon got its rocks off.
The moon hated the night.
Threw rocks at the night.
It was a Palestinian Moon.
A big pale Palestinian moon.
The night was not.
The night was black.
The night was a nigger.
A nigger named Night.
A muslim named Moon.
So basically there were two men in the night
under the moon fighting love…
But men love fighting, so were they really men?
Fine.
Two women in the night
Under the moon fighting love.
Women love to fight.
Especially over lovers
Especially about love.
Two women in the night under the moon fighting about love.
It was a love tap
It was a love punch.
It was a punch, love.
Run in the morning.
No, I stick to the Night.
It was a love slap.
His hand felt like a night stick.
He hits what he loves.
So long as he doesn’t leave what he loves.
Men don’t love love.
Men fight things they don’t love.
So it was two men in the night fighting love
And men love a good fight
and never leave a good fight.
Two women hating the fight.
But loving the men.
And women never leave a good man.
So there was hate and love one night under the moon
Two moons ago.
Band-aid
Posted by Marion Smallwood | Filed under Poetry, Print
Winter
Posted by Justin Ching | Filed under Announcements
A winter’s night,
Haven’t seen you in awhile,
Apologize if I’m having trouble making eye contact,
But you’re the same kind of gorgeous I remember,
And I’m not ready for that yet,
The weather still reminds me of the excuses we made to play Eskimo beneath bed your sheets,
When our noses were the best kissers this side of the north pole,
Not like those reckless things below,
American lips,
Too much tongue,
And not enough substance,
We used to arc flight paths across the heartland,
Lie upside down and flip them into the widest smiles from California to Manhattan,
You’re not as warm as you used to be,
And I chose a crowded restaurant where everyone knows me,
So I won’t make a scene this time ‘round.
Whether on a stage or a familiar place,
I’m always best when people are watching,
But there’s only been one person,
I’ve never been afraid to see me for who I am, naked,
And it’s been far too long,
How many times can I drive you home,
Watch the front door close stoplight red,
And wonder would you let me run it if no one’s around,
When I got home, I went to play basketball,
Because it’s the only thing I’m worse at than you,
And I need to feel good about us again,
It snowed on the walk back,
And I swore the sky was trying to romance me,
Sierra Leone mine diamonds from the stratosphere,
Have you ever tried to catch a dying star on your tongue,
It tastes nothing like forever,
More like innocence,
The dust of the February wind dancing halos under each lonely lamp post,
Until the earth is a blank slate again,
But I know now we can’t start over,
Because we don’t stick right anymore,
Love is not always white as wedding gowns,
Sometimes you have to get your hands dirty,
Like New Orleans jazz and the hurricane season,
The grit of brass band parades when the muck is up to your knees
Believe we can rebuild a home out of anything,
Take me back to Dixieland, I’m cold.
