Poetry

 In the museum of lost things, I trace
the outline of your departure. Here,
a glass case houses the echo of your laugh,
preserved in amber and forgetfulness.

There’s an art to curating emptiness—
each void carefully labeled, catalogued
by the weight of its silence. I’ve become
an expert in the taxonomy of gone.

In the gift shop, I purchase a postcard
of the space you used to occupy. It’s blank,
of course. I write Dear            on the back,
but can’t remember how to spell your name.

The docent leads a tour through the wing
of almosts and not-quites. We pause
before an exhibit of near-misses,
their almost-touches frozen in time.

I donate my collection of your maybes
to the archive. They file it away
under “Potential Energy, Unrealized”—
a whole universe of what-ifs, gathering dust.

At night, the museum comes alive
with the rustling of phantom limbs.
Amputated futures stretch and yawn,
staging a rebellion against absence.

I volunteer as night watchman,
guardian of all we’ve misplaced.
In the dark, I polish the display cases
of regret until they shine like new moons.

Sometimes, I swear I can hear you
whispering from inside the walls.
But it’s just the building settling,
adjusting to the weight of what’s not there.

In the morning, I’ll open the doors
to another day of careful preservation.
Visitors will come to gawk at the relics
of lives unlived, loves unkindled.

And I’ll be here, cartographer
of the negative space you left behind,
mapping the contours of your non-existence
with the precision of a heart that won’t forget.

 

 

 

Ari is a writer born and raised in Memphis, Tennessee. Their work can be found in Eunoia Review, Gigantic Sequins, and Blue Marble Review, among others. They have been recognized by the National YoungArts Foundation, the National Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, and more. In their free time, they enjoy playing pickleball and badminton.

 

See me as me not as she
View my personality
On what am I today, how far I’ll succeed
Not all my yesterdays , not on my ethnicity

See me as me not as she
You don’t  have to stare
What if I am dark or fair
I can be whatever I want to be, You be equal to me

See me as me not as she
If only we change our perspective
I don’t need hackney’d adjectives
If only we change and overthrow our beliefs

See me as me not as she
Don’t put me in a corner
Plant me where I grow
Not suppressed, but where I express, for you’ll only reap what you sow

See me as me not as she
Let me be me, flying with spirited wings
Like day and night, him and her, let the twain co-exist
No alchemy needed, if you willingly change, if you willingly change

See me as me not as she
When decisions are made, ask me! T’s not just about you or me
I’ve potential, everything can be us
Together more we can achieve
No barriers to tell what each can be

See me as me not as she
See me as me not as she

 

 

Deelisha Trikha is  a passionate teen from India who loves literature. She  loves reading books and creating things, absorbs a lot and feels that there is a lot she can give to the world.

lambs racing through split bushes,
khakis and grown-in splinters burrowed under

goose-bump covered skin; us three girls, wiry legs and
knobby knees, hidden under unicorn bandaids and smiley-face

stickers from the dollar store.
we told ourselves to look for ghosts, an emblem

of a 3am bloody mary ritual in a china-tiled bathroom;
dirt caressed our fingernails, growing flowers from our

own nutrients and hope.
we brushed each others’ hands, leaving

carcasses of dreams amidst the blossoming of
once-dead pine trees and snail shells; we were

infinite, unstoppable by none other than a ringing
dinner bell.

our grey hair would never grow in, wrinkles unknown,
unfazed by lost teeth and trickles of blood; not even

the spreading bruise of an impending tornado in the wheat fields
could stop us from clutching each other under the shadows

of sickly branches.
ghosts disappeared, threatened by home-made EMF readers

and pink Disney walkie-talkies; floating home from a fruitless
vacation: the corpse of a possum, blackened lungs choking

on freedom summers and boiling skin, arms wide-open,
waiting for the final haunt.

 

 

 

 

Ema Bekic is a student at Interlochen Arts Academy, majoring in Creative Writing. Using her roots in both Canada and Serbia, she writes bilingually, drawing upon the voices of her heritage and the thrills of youth. When she isn’t writing, you can find her travelling with her camera or collecting scraps of literature.

 

And, we’re back.
Junction Blvd., a train
stop, the neighbor’s mop,
the rhythm’s pop, where
leaves, even those of
the smallest twigs, emit
a beautiful green shine.
If only younger me appreciated
the Boulevard as much as
Wordsworth praised the
beauty of nature. Those walks
to Queens Mall would have
felt like saunters across the
Red Carpet, though simpler
in thought and purer in joy.
Those train rides to Flushing,
taking the ‘R’ and the ‘7’,
comfortably nested in the train’s
prismatic orange seat, then
lent an aroma by the hair
of the woman across from me.
The Man on the Microphone
bids us farewell. And, farewell
it was, having ended up an hour
away in Long Island.

 

 

From NYC to Long Island to NYC, Dylan Fei enjoys all things creative, especially the way Allen Ginsberg reads his poems.

Dawn bursts from the mother’s womb — lights the sky — all
golden snowflakes, scarlet rain, cinnamon dust across the old
spinning earth. Verdant trees go roseate. Stars fade like classic

folklore, bygone stories thrumming between skin and bone. It’s
a human thing, an anthropological wonder, an archaeological
artifact. No one thought they’d miss the gods’ wrath. Lightning

strikes the tree atop the hill — it’s a dark and stormy night. We
cup our hands, catch the tempest as it crashes, burning brilliant
even as it dies upon our palms. Cumulonimbus moves across

state lines, a traveler, nomadic as we were meant to be. It is
a human mystery, how we became sedentary — like falcons,
birds of a feather, we chased distant horizons, following them

to their glowing sunsets. Dusk settles down, gathers the kids
around a campfire to tell ghost stories. Wandering feet grow
stagnant, spirits retire to restfulness. Storm calms. Stars turn

the wheel of time, the sky, and human life. Farewell and begone.

 

Nadyne Sattar is a Bangladeshi American high schooler and poet raised somewhere between the sea and the Midwest. She writes about identity, youth, mortality, this ancient Earth, and other such messy things. Her work has been recognized by various organizations, including the National YoungArts Foundation and the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers.