Poetry

in the dark of night I steal away,
slip through the shivering fields to pray
on my knees, my fingers intertwined
the only way I know how to find
my ethereal companion, the lovely moon
For only she listens to my sorrowful tune
Haunted by unrequited love
anguished eyes gaze up above
to a soul who has shared my pain
One that shall never truly wane
For she orbits the earth and I a boy
both unaware of this eternal deploy
of affection and love granted by choice
but one I’ll undoubtedly  never voice

 

Robin A. Mikita is a freshman in high school from Pennsylvania. When she is not writing, she can be found reading, watching true crime documentaries, or drinking unhealthy amounts of coffee. She won second place in the 2024 International Humanitarian Law Essay Competition and aspires to be an author someday.

You cooked me dinner last night,
and I can still taste the warmth of
sirloin and butter and your lips and
our bed after two cocktails. Tangled
in the sheets, I can remember our first
meal: vegetable risotto and salmon at
a candlelit restaurant before we walked
along the riverbank, me under your arm
among the crisp rose petals of fall leaves.
Back in your room, I tasted the cologne
on your skin while you freed my dress
and my self-control and my appetite in
that same gentle way you crack an egg
so we can share cookie dough and wine
on the duvet at midnight. I’m still hungry
from our first months apart—I remember
the bouquets you sent me, the starvation
of our kisses in the car when you met
me at the airport with your love and a
sandwich and another seven recipes for
us to try. This is just one reason I want
to spend my life with you: even on
February 15^th, I crave our next meal.

 

Jenna Mather is a graduate of the University of Iowa, where she studied English and creative writing. With her poetry, short fiction, and creative nonfiction, she tries to untangle the complexities of love, womanhood, and the writing life. On any given day, you can find her in a coffee shop—or online at @_jennamather and jennamather.com.

sometimes
when i look in the mirror,
i see your face in mine—

the dip of your nose,
the arch in your brow,
the earnest
curve of your lips.

i wonder if
it’s a mind’s trick,

if it’s my head
assuring me

you’re still here.

my head
is lying.

**

i do this every summer

write about
another pitiful
lost love that wasn’t really

lost

because it wasn’t really love

sometimes i share

these pathetic poems
with my friends

they used to cry
now they wince

i’m losing my rhythm,
my lyric

**

i run the shower—
i like the water hot,
tattooing words onto
my back, carving

through skin, through bone.

fool

 i stare at the walls,

lean down—almost
kiss the glass—
instead, i breathe.

i write in the fog—
your name, over
and over and
over

until the letters
blur together

into a pool of steam—

i see my reflection
but i can’t tell

if it’s me
or if it’s
you.

 

Sierra Elman is an aspiring author and poet. She has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, Stone Soup, NaNoWriMo, and is a three-time winner of the Sarah Mook Poetry Contest. Besides writing, she also enjoys playing the piano and guitar.

I called myself an atheist

until I sat at my desk and the words stopped flowing like they used to

until I misplaced the divinity within myself

put it somewhere I couldn’t quite find it, and I promise I looked everywhere

until the first boy who gifted me flowers ripped my heart out of the cage that sheltered it

until adulthood came knocking at my door without texting or calling first

yelled at me to be financially independent

in the form of an irate parent

until it was apparent

that I wasn’t a one-woman army

Now I look for God in

the night-lamp next to my bed that never goes out

nestled amidst the notes of Passacaglia and Fugue in C minor by Bach

in the effortful activation of my right cerebral hemisphere

the cup of chai I brew for myself as an evening ritual

self-help podcasts and freshly changed bedsheets

and sometimes, if I’m brave enough,

I look for God

In the mirror

 

Kimaya Natekar is a recent graduate from FLAME University, a liberal arts school in Pune, India, where she majored in psychology with a sociology minor. She enjoys academic writing, and her research articles have been published in TheGrayMatterNews and SentinelAssam. She strongly believes, however, that she is a poet at heart, and grabs every opportunity she gets to prove it to herself.

It’s June
and there’s still a
lump in my throat.
I’ve tried everything.
Tea. Medicine. Intimacy.
Burning the photographs
and attending therapy.

I drop a bird at your door
and I know you don’t understand:
I love you in a way that’s different
violent, and blue.

I almost confessed it to you
but on its way out, it was too large
and got caught in the tube.
Now it’s trapped in my throat
and even grandma doesn’t know what to do.

 

Lily is a student and writer based in Miami, Florida. She enjoys writing poetry, short fiction, and plays. Her work has been published previously in Aries Magazine, Silent Spark Press, and produced on her high school stage. When she is not writing, she is lending a hand at the theatre.

darkness—that perpetual question—
crashes over my room, my bed, me
my reckless mind breathes life into
a new world, one with:
perpetual football on the tv /
half-drunk coffee resting on the counter /
two-player video games /
a tissue box lying untouched /
shaving cream bottles by the bathroom sink /
the sound of laughter /
tardiness that never drags past fifteen minutes /
a smile that kisses the corners of my eyes /
a living room safe from jeering spirits /
a mother who can get out of bed without collapsing /
my awful dad jokes /
and a dad to share them with.

 

Emily is a high schooler from California. In her free time, she enjoys making low-quality memes with Imgflip and struggling to debug her code.