Poetry

The ocean wants your body, last
year. Not this year. Things
were different then.

The ocean wants your ribbed chest, your
fear of shells, high tide, the cycle of it. And tired, then,
you, spread on the dry towel, finished.

The ocean sings on an empty stomach, this
high noon, these little swells, this hot hunger. You let her push you
and push you, and correct her gently. Waves

and waves on an empty stomach. She licks
the salt from the french fries, the sand from your knuckle. Presses
up against the dunes, spoons the shore, hollows it out.

The ocean asks you to come back, waves
and waves. Pulls everything in as far as she can. Waves
and waves, openmouthed, ripples, but swallows sand.

The ocean wanted this
to go differently. Tired, then,
she draws back, laying like a dog.

The ocean wants you, last
year. Once you were there. Once,
she had you, held you, turned you

over like a stone. Not this year. Waves
and waves, and things
were different then.

 

Anna Popnikolova is a first-year at Harvard College, and a member of the Harvard Advocate’s poetry board. She was born and raised on Nantucket Island, off the coast of Massachusetts, and is still getting used to life in the city. Her work has been previously published in TeenInk, Veritas newspaper, and The WEIGHT Journal. She is the founder and president of Farewell Poetry Festival, which is an annual summer poetry festival on Nantucket.

The rustling bees chide the white fence
& wooden gashes seep their sap
To scent the yellowed grass
Sweet & tawny as hay.

Back in the city, jarred like jewels
The musk-night lights speak their truths
& persuade many good girls
To writhe like water snakes

In lava lamp glow of townhome
Basements. It’s a bee-like itch that
Tames them, slick vinyl silence
As teeth to skin, to pray &

Seek forgiveness from the fruit belt
Then sip dusk’s moondark cider.
Morning bleeds through slatted blinds
To wash their pale faces clean of decay.

At dawn, the earth blooms gold anew
& the bustling hive of city streets
Becomes a honeyed hymn,
Sung drunk to coming fall.

Here, in this stillness, she breathes
The last warm breath of summer,
& casts her virgin curse away
To the bees & things unnamed.

 

Indiana Plant is a freshman and Eccles Scholar at the University of Utah, where she is studying applied economics and anthropology. Her poetry has been published by The Palouse Review, Sink Hollow, Live Poets Society of New Jersey, and Scripto Literary Magazine. She has received an Honorable Mention in the Penguin Random House U.S. Creative Writing Awards. Her debut novel, Beyond the Grave, was a finalist for the Lost Island Press Publishing Contest for Dark YA Fiction.

you’re talking about your day
but all i hear is the space
between words, the small gaps
where meaning should be.

like a badly tuned radio,
we keep fading in and out—
one minute clear as summer
lightning, the next just
white noise and distance.

remember when conversation
felt like breathing? now
we choose our words like
landmine hopscotch, testing
each step before we leap.

dinner gets cold while we
warm up old arguments,
reheat yesterday’s silence.
the microwave counts down
in mechanical heartbeats.

somewhere between “how was work”
and “i’m fine,” we lost
the frequency we used to share.
now we’re just static,
two stations playing
different songs
on the same channel.

i want to reach across
the kitchen table, adjust
our antenna, fine-tune us
back to clarity. but my hands
stay busy with fork and knife,
cutting everything into
manageable pieces.

maybe tomorrow we’ll find
the right wavelength,
or maybe we’ll keep searching
through this interference,
hoping to catch fragments
of what we used to be.

 

Emma Lopez is a high school junior from Austin, Texas. Their work has appeared in TeenInk, and they are currently working on their first collection of poetry. When not writing, she practices archery and sells watercolor paintings of Texas wildflowers.

You clicked accept the first time without reading,
Too busy being born to question the clauses.
The terms seemed reasonable:
Grow up, be kind, chase happiness.
What they didn’t tell you was the fine print—
The bits about heartbreak, taxes, and gravity.

At six, you learned the cost of secrets,
When your best friend told yours for a second popsicle.
At sixteen, you met love for the first time,
All braces and late-night texts,
Only to find it couldn’t hold
The weight of who you wanted to be.

You signed again at eighteen,
The paper inked with promises of freedom,
But they forgot to mention the debt
That comes with choosing your own chains.

By twenty-five, you’re fluent in disclaimers.
The mornings smell of burnt coffee and urgency,
And every “How are you?” feels like
A phishing scam for your vulnerabilities.
You nod, smile, keep scrolling.
Another checkbox clicked,
Another I have read and agree.

Then one day, the system glitches.
You’re stuck staring at the screen of your life,
Cursor blinking like an accusation.
And suddenly, you remember clause 2.7,
The one about nothing being guaranteed.

You scroll back to the top,
But there’s no option for refund.
Just more choices:
Keep going or stop here.
And who has the courage to stop?

You sigh and press accept again,
Because what else is there
A momentary pause, then the program runs.
The same bright, hollow interface.

But this time, you think—
Maybe you’ll break the terms,
Try clicking on something
No one’s supposed to see

 

Tanisha is a fourteen-year-old student and poet from India who loves exploring the world through words. Her writing often delves into themes of identity, nature, and the quiet complexities of everyday life. When she’s not crafting poems, she enjoys reading, sketching, and finding inspiration in the small details of the world around her.

The world ––its bad auditory nerves making the wailing of a girl
sound like blues. & they danced on, most of the boys in the neighborhood.
Once, in class, when asked what reaches boiling point sooner than liquid,
I answered: my seething bitterness against the world of men.
But I love my father still, I hate to see my brothers weep.
I’ve loved a boy so much that I named my poem after him.
The toad raced over by a car on untarred road was what he made my heart.
I do not mean I welcome all men. Mediastinum quakes–– bald men
with barb-wired beards make my heart craves flight.
Considering where the disobedience of Eve has led us
I surmised, that everyman has the right to retribution against us,
which I dread wouldn’t favour them either. What do you call a home
without mothers? Isn’t grave a garden without flowers?

 

Ramatu Audu (she/her) is a Nigerian teen writer of Ebira descent. She hopes to grow from a budding stage of writing into a pro.

8:00am
cops donut dollar bill
9:00
used for change
10:00
sitting in a wallet
11:43
slips out of wallet
12:52pm
flyin—
g
1:20
someone’s lucky day someone got it
2:27
donated to man on the street
who needed to get on his feet
3:56
the man who got it got some meat.
4:32
the owner of the store keeps the 20
5:21
the owner has it tugged
6:49
owner is leaving
7:13
owner gets hungry
8:32
the bill now in In N Out cash register
9:49
bill gets used for change
10:43
bill is exchanged
12:04am
bill used for something it shouldn’t have been

 

Juan Cruz is a student at Port of Los Angeles High School.