Poetry

Synecdoche

By Sophie Panzer

They say the painter Van Gogh

cut off his ear in a fit of tortured

madness and presented it to a prostitute

he might have loved, as if to say,

take this, make of me what you will,

derive my essence from this fragment

of flesh. Again and again we see

the blurred divide between madness

and genius. Think: what if, rather than

relying on endless testing and paperwork

colleges asked applicants for a single sliver

of belly or buttock or breast

mailed overnight in a cooler

and then, along with thousands

of others, fed through

a machine that could distill from it

every drip of ambition

every particle of desire

every tremor of weakness

as if the number of times you decided

to watch Netflix and eat ice cream

rather than study for AP Calculus

was configured deep in your tissues, mapped

in the intricate alignment of your cells.

Sophie Panzer is a history major at McGill University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in carte blanche, GERM Magazine, Inklette, The Veg, Yiara, Teen Ink, and YARN (Young Adult Review Network). She enjoys musicals, long hikes, and friendly arguments.

An Imagined Conversation, or Why Couples Should Just Listen to Happy Music

By Bailey Share Aizic

Perched on the edge

of your bed, I listen to the

lyrics of a song I’ve

heard a million times.

“I’ll never be the comfort

you lost when you were

nine,” the singer belts,

and I look at you. “Don’t

give me that face,” you say,

“this song is about quitting

smoking.” I want to say

something clever in return,

like, “same difference,”

but you’re smarter than

me, so I just keep staring.

Wistful. I know you want

me to go home, or anywhere

other than your room. I will,

in a moment. For now,

let me count your freckles

and imagine a future in

which you love me.

Bailey Share Aizic is a poet, student, and Oxford comma enthusiast based in Los Angeles. She works on the editorial team of Wizards in Space Magazine, a litmag by and for nerdy writers, and performs improv comedy in her (scant) spare time. Read her recent work in Noctua, Rogue Agent, Right Hand Pointing, and Calamus, and read her mind @sortabailey.

National Day

By Kathleen Madigan

My classmates compete

to see who can bring the most camels.

Some of the older kids bring

falcons, and let them fly through the

crowd of people on the field.

During lunch,

old women sit on the ground

with a small electric stove

in front of them, making fried balls of dough

covered in honey and sesame seeds. We

watch a performance in the gym, of girls

doing the hair dance, whipping knee-length

locks from side to side. Of boys

twirling guns in time to the

music. The songs performed in a foreign tongue.

They give us flags of

a country I don’t yet know

but will become my home.

Kathleen Madigan spent four years living in the Middle East, where she learned many new traditions. Her favorite was National Day, a time at school to appreciate the culture of the United Arab Emirates by seeing native animals and eating traditional food.

Ursa Major

By Farah Ghafoor

“While he was hunting wild animals… he came across his mother [Callisto, a bear], who stood still at sight of Arcas and appeared to know him. He shrank back from those unmoving eyes gazing at him so fixedly, uncertain what made him afraid, and when she quickly came nearer he was about to pierce her chest with his lethal spear. All-powerful Jupiter restrained him … and set them in the heavens and made them similar constellations, the Great and Little Bear.”

Metamorphoses Book II

The evening like a frozen bell. The silver, ghostly

mouth of Callisto as she looks for her son. A spear

tucked into dark, mute hair, she now hunts

the idle mothers. Warns: Carry your children

between your teeth, your nails. When the sky veils itself,

do not let them be moonflowers to be picked by men

with fingers like thick wooden pipes.

Give them more than birth: This distance is as faceless

as a beast. You will know when they become only a slash

of heart, a blackened window. You will know

when every morning echoes a tinkling light

for what you will have lost.

Farah Ghafoor is a sixteen-year-old poet and editor-in-chief at Sugar Rascals. Her work is published or forthcoming in Ninth Letter, alien mouth, and Big Lucks among other places, and has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. Farah is the recipient of the 2016 Alexandria Quarterly Emerging Artists and Writers Award. She believes that she deserves a cat. Find her online at fghafoor.tumblr.com.

Mouth

By Arah Ko

Tonguing suckers

until the end has slickened to a sharp

edge and you have cut your mouth

over and over in search of residual

sweetness. Red dripping chins;

I do not know syrup from

blood.

II.

The park is stiff with new

cold. Your mittens hang like ruby rags

from their clasp on your coat.

Eating junk food on the bench, a dying

wasp creeps in your straw, stings

your lips, over and over; you cry

until dad pries the stinger from

your gums.

III.

The dental students say

one tooth wants to come out.

You shrug, brave apprehension

crinkling your rosy, round cheeks,

for the first time losing fat. You leave

the office, three milk teeth in a

ziplock bag, gauze cottoning the wound

in your young jaw. Your face is swollen

but you smile at me,

over and over.

Arah Ko is an English Major in the Chicago area. When not writing, she can be found frequenting open mic nights, explaining her name pronunciation to coffee shop baristas, and contemplating the meaning of life, other than 42.

Family Hike

By Vivian Tsai

We march out—so early I can’t even see—

till Meg has a headache and John has to pee,

and Ruby is swearing she’ll die of despair

if another small nature bug lands in her hair.

“Now, camping’s a great way to spend time together,”

says Dad as we groan about grime and the weather.

“Just humor your father,” our mom chimes along,

but none of us join in her hiking trip song.

Come noon, I discover the map’s upside-down,

and Ruby and Meg both wear permanent frowns.

The lunches have melted, a PBJ puddle,

and even Dad’s beat when we do our group huddle.

On campground, we’re weary and beading with sweat

at the peak of what Dad says we’ll “never forget.”

He can’t pitch the tent, so we lie on the dirt

and the earth is so bumpy, our spinal cords hurt.

But the six of us match with our sore limbs and yawns

as Mom sings and I squeeze between Ruby and John.

We marvel together as stars come to peep,

and I’m grateful to Dad as I drift off to sleep.

Vivian Tsai currently studies computer science and applied math at Johns Hopkins University. She spends her free time doodling, writing letters, and playing tennis with friends.