Poetry

 

 

an addict’s hands / tremble / like a cave of bats / every thought /

tastes like relapse / i pull my veins / out of my arm / tie them /

to a kite / pray they get lost / in the storm

 

 

 

J. David is a spoken word artist from Cleveland, Ohio, and the author of  The Streetlight and The Supernova. Most days he spends driving, or dreaming of the way a slow train rolls through Georgia pines at midnight under a clear sky. His name feels heavy, so he sits under rain clouds trying to feel clean.

The clanking of efele in the sink as grandma dutifully does the dishes

Running the soiled plates through the water

The cold wet water that has latched onto her very being drawing her back to her beginning

It sends gentle ripples of an earthly peace to travel the wide, intersecting highways of a child’s mind

 

The quiet thumping of the aziza as my industrious mother sweeps away the dirt, evidence of a lively day drawing lazily to a close

It resounds throughout the chambers of my heart bringing with it the indescribable comfort they call “home”

 

The air is beautified with the low sizzling of the beloved fried plantains that bask in the slippery touch of heavy oil

Whose scent slowly snakes around the entire household, gracing my family with its delicious

aroma

 

The graceful stomping of my father’s feet as he dances around to his adored beats of music notes that reverberate throughout his entire body

He sends merry shockwaves pulsating through the wooden floor

 

My brothers and sisters create our own impromptu melody led by the free spirits of a youthful generation as we run about the happy home knocking down books and toys to and fro

As the hissing of the bubbling egusi soup rages on in that scented kitchen

 

And the hushed, whispered nighttime tales of the precious mbe and how the foolish turtle cracked his shell

Or the laughable ewu too confused to function in the complex animal kingdom of the vast savanna

 

The sounds ever ringing in my home are ringing throughout the essence of my existence

They draw the thin moving streams of my soul out to dance along with the beats of a divine inheritance

 

Oh yes, there is an aura in this abode

One of deep, rich, irreplaceable substance that traces us all back to the land where our names began

Where the bloodline was planted and its seeds watered by the sweat of strong, brave men and women

 

They call it culture

An invisible string that has sewn our stories together and set them afloat upon the gushing Nile whose mighty cataracts pushes us ever onward

I call it life

 

Chiamaka Okonkwo is an emerging writer. She is a junior in high school who spends her time composing poetry that takes snapshots of daily life. She can be found running in the park whilst pondering the words of Wordsworth, Longfellow or T.S. Elliot. She has work upcoming in various publications.

Heels dangling over the edge of the New York City skyline, she climbed 1,576 steps just to see her life and its relationship to the streetcars below. On 31st street the sudden deaths of three people she will never meet cause a traffic delay of fifteen minutes. On 72nd and Broadway a boy walks alone, dragging his shoes across the pavement, considering how easy it will be to step in front of the 5 o’clock subway train. Years later he remembers a woman holding a sack of groceries whose glance kept him from the edge of the platform. On 29th street, an advertisement for chewing gum plays on a television as a man with white hair and shaking hands checks his mailbox to find it empty. He will die in his sleep tonight, but for now the TV blares and the mailbox maintains its vacancy. Some indistinguishable figure 1,576 steps below hails a cab. It’s too late, they’ve missed their flight and he is four hours dead, but the world is spinning. These seconds, these lives, they blend together into the din: a symphony. Simultaneously, or across the span of centuries. The prelude to silence.

 

 

Megan Loreto is an eighteen-year-old writer originally from the San Francisco Bay Area who is currently studying English at Loyola Marymount University. Megan was an editor of Backroads Magazine for the year of 2017. In her spare time, she can be caught leafing through the journals of Sylvia Plath, listening to records from the 1960s, or spending time with her two cats, Janie and Bingley.

Skin sinking in goosebumps,

I reach out for you:

asylum from the dark blue

lashing out to lap me up.

Pulling my head onto your shoulder,

you whisper to me,

and I bask in the brush

of your breath on my cheeks.

Resting on my raft,

I watch the spirals

traipse away from your legs

as you propel them back and forth.

Praying for a miracle

to sweep us back to land,

you succumb to the tremors —

I don’t let go.

 

Akua Owusu is a junior at Milton Academy who spends most of her time in her dorm room stressing about extracurriculars. In her short life, Akua has moved back and forth between Accra, Ghana and New England suburbs. Akua’s unique experience of the world is the main motivating factor behind her writing.

 

sirens, eyes closed, on the rocks.

sirens, breath steady, floating

in the water, then looking

like they’re about to sink.

sirens, not screaming, not

singing, not ensnaring

men and pulling them down.

 

this time, when Odysseus’

unnamed ship passed those

rocky crags now silent and

unscathing, no gallery of

soprano voices lilted down

the cliffside, and the sirens

didn’t watch the men

watch them. they were out

as if with lotus, chamomile,

melatonin. as monsters and

as women (which are really

just the same uniform) they

were used to caring too much.

sleep let them care too little,

not at all—we are not

your protectors anymore,

their eyelids fluttered, sighed.

 

slicing through the oars, the water’s

blue made the men’s medals

glisten, with ribbon after ribbon

stuck on their shirts’ pockets.

the children in the village they’d

plunder later would never see

their accolades, nor would they

ever awaken like the sirens

the next day, wondering what

on earth they’d let happen, caused.

 

 

Courtney Felle is a daughter, dreamer, writer, watcher, waffle enthusiast, and recent high school alumna. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming at other publications including Jet Fuel Review, Moledro Magazine, and Chautauqua Literary Magazine. She herself is the founder and current editor-in-chief for Body Without Organs Literary Journal, which can be found online at http://bodywithoutorgans.weebly.com/.

I’d like to sightsee God

one day, but I don’t know

where to go. My mother

sees him on the road

leading up to our home,

his invisible shadow

hot over her shoulders,

his visage reflected in my

dark-swept pupils. I

imagine God beckoning

to my mother, her nodding

chin hooked by his finger-

wick. Her eyes, eclipsed. Mine,

still searching.

 

 

Claire S. Lee is a student at Canyon Crest Academy. Her writing has been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards and appears or is forthcoming in *82 Review, Rising Phoenix Review, and Eunoia Review, among others. She works as an editor for COUNTERCLOCK and as an editorial intern for The Blueshift Journal. Though she loves poetry and nonfiction, her favorite genre is historical fiction.