The End
Posted by Chloe Wayne | Filed under Poetry, Print
to my best friend:
i know one day you will unlearn the algebra of his face. on nights when insomnia jackknifes its way across your eyelids, you will unfeel the cold in its blade.
its been three years. you’ve been trying to find a wrinkle of rainbow in your bruises, a rainbow you swear he put there back when he’d look at you that way. eyes clinging, he is chewing gum.
and sometimes your footsteps lose themselves in translation, but i know you’ll leave him. i know you’ll find your eyes again. you used to sing from the green melting into your pupils, there were mockingbirds there. you marooned them on a question mark two years ago. they’re silent, but i hear them smiling. breasts bursting like banana trees on fire and a song in undertow. they haven’t died yet.
Allergy
Posted by Melissa Pavri | Filed under Poetry, Print
i think your skin is
born of bumblebees
not the kind that sting
the kind that comb
elbow through mess just to prove that
something can come of chaos
hover hum between flailing and dying
and find honey in the wingspan
of the air between our noses
it baffles me
how a swarm of laughter can silence
every qualm my hands have ever had
how the cacophony of your breath
can drum my thoughts into
the hexagon of your smile
i wish i understood the allergy of distance
the cloud caught truth
that you cant outgrow giants
or mothers scorn
or six hours airborne
wish i could ease with will
the hive that swells lip and flesh
to the knot of stories in our knees
that cant seem to come undone
the ones that fret like fire and
slither like steam
through the thicket of today
they are the seed of you
make my tongue sound spring
and lose the lisp of winter
why is it that women must be linguists
i pray they forget how to spell
long enough to learn the names
of the boys in their back pockets
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.
