December 2020

My head lolls off this slope
and I gaze past the hill upside
down, half asleep, the cushion
of the earth tempting to roll down
in. Though the thrill
would be short lived,
a shower of soot waiting
for me at the bottom.

I sit upright to escape the bright
sun, not feeling up to shine.
I hide my head and walk
until I am safely tucked under
the lone broadleaved hulk,
where I can spy in the shade.

I peer into and through
the branches above me
and deep within there’s a batch
of fruit as if a gift for those who pay
attention, care beyond the outside.

On my tiptoes I pluck the nearest
one and hold it between my forefingers.
It’s an unfamiliar shape, the color
combination bursting with energy,
its limited lines passionate. It
appears sour, but the next moment
it’s honey sweet in my mouth.
I expect it to be soft as a peach,
but my teeth are at war
with the skin that’s tougher
than an apple.

Having never been told
to come here, the persimmon
is as unpopular as its color,
but that treatment
makes it rare, exquisite.

I face the bark and mold my
fingers into the wrinkles,
swearing an oath
to protect this tree.

Jacklyn is fifteen years old, and from New Jersey. She likes to write poetry while drinking a matcha bubble tea. Her work has been recognized by Creative Communications, Runes Magazine, and more.

            Cheers of the crowd ring in my ears,
Players from both teams jump up to block a shot.
I slap down the ball making it fall into Bridgette´s hands.
Bridgette starts running down the court, while I run beside her.
She passes the ball to me, and I launch it in the air.
The ball spins around the edge of the rim
Time comes to a complete stop as it hovers over the edge.
Finally the ball slips through the net,
with a crisp Whoosh sound.
The buzzer sends out a deafening noise.
Victory!
Bridgette gives me a high five, Graysen jumps on my back,
but the most proud of me is my coach.

My Father.

 

Maria Polizzi loves to be busy,— playing basketball, dancing and hanging out with friends. She loves to eat Italian food and go on road trips. She has just recently started writing poetry and hopes she can continue to be published.

I’m falling in love with living.

I’m falling in love with impulsive tattoos in shady studios,
with midnight walks and shared hoodies on narrow pavements.
I’m falling in love with the smell of fresh rain and cut grass,
of barbecues and sea salt in the air near beaches.

I love the beach, the waves and how the sun
shines a bright orange before setting in the sea
I love rainstorms, grey clouds and lightning
a steady rhythm of drops falling on my skin

I love holding hands, interlocking fingers
and rubbing thumbs in circles on skin
I love wearing my heart on my sleeve
Because everyone should know I love them

I love how my mother kisses my forehead on nights I can’t sleep
my father has tears in his eyes he won’t let us see, but he is so proud
I love my dog, who sleeps a little more peacefully if I am next to him
and reminds me that simply existing is good enough

I love the sun for rising when I don’t want to.
how each day goes on despite me,
how life is still worth loving when I feel like I am not

I’m falling in love with hope.
hope for better days, for better moments and memories
and reasons to go on.
I have so many already, but
I’m falling in love with so many more.

 

 

Riya is a nineteen-year-old psychology student who spends her free time obsessing over dogs, reading and singing along to Harry Styles. She’s only been published a handful of times and usually writes rambling pieces in her pink diary.

central business district

the silk market is a game of chess and
ambition, a power ploy: all sharp tongues
and hands on hips. calculators speak
for the foreigners here but those of us
whose eyes have run obsidian since birth
know that to punch numbers and box for
a bargain is to lose. in these vendor stalls,
serenity is a strategy and nonchalance is
the mark of a winner. look the snake in the
eye, and pay double after the bite.

underground

there is triple, quadruple irony in the
posters underground. rusty tiles crumble
with age as aspect ratios demand attention
to the emerald opulence of beijing. cigarettes,
half-smoked, sigh from a nearby corner.
still, we giggle shoulder-to-shoulder as
we venture through a mundane morning.
to the gray cement of the country, our
young eyes add value beyond comparison

great wall

rain wears at the monument’s rambling
steps and eccentric asymmetry. history is
told in color, yet centuries of the great wall
have only lived in gray stone. still, plastic
tourists crowd its peaks like triumphant
crayons. we huddle in threes under black
umbrellas to evade the uneven storm. i
shudder to imagine what wes anderson
would think.

forbidden city

deciphering the stylistic wooden strokes
on these crumbling monuments does
not come easy. english may flow like a
river of words but chinese will always
shudder irregularly in dirty droplets as
it rambles down these red shingles. my
dark dress suddenly becomes fitting; i
am not meant to wear royal gold in this
hallowed city.

 

Maggie Sun currently lives in Southern California. She loves listening to history podcasts, and her phone case collection is inspired by the likes of Audrey Hepburn and Do Ho Suh.

sun sallowed, sunken eyes— we swallow
each other before dusk. cemetery gates

flutter open. darkness is only an idea
we believe with all our shadowed selves, throats

cracked with mourning, blackened bits of voices
in the grass. i am the youngest, loving

each tomb more than the last: children
of stone that need my imaginary arms

to hold them close. this is what i have always
wanted. the others are older, sing

with hollowed mouths to bind the dead. in the dark
we can’t see ourselves. limbs fill

with what we want to be, hills seize
our false ankles and begin the cycle

of dragging missing bodies into earth. truth
is, we died long ago. truth is, we will never

die. truth means nothing as night slips
through our fists—

we dance on the graves of ghosts.

 

Ana Carpenter is a high school junior at Walter Payton College Prep in Chicago, Illinois. Her work has appeared in Polyphony Lit and Rare Byrd Review.  When she’s not writing, she can be found reading, exploring, and shamelessly defending the YA genre.

The cat, he hides in shadows bleak
Creeping in his coat so sleek
Flick of tail and gleam of eyes
Presently a mouse he spies.

Swift as lightning, dark as night
From his eye an awful light
Quick he pounce and pounce his best
And so he puts that mouse to rest.

Ah dear friend, now you go
My tale is told so now you know
Of the midnight meal and a mouse’s woe.

 

Morgan Lamkin is a student from Wisconsin.