Issue 33

u—

i see ur lips when
my eyes flutter open in the
dead of summer nights—

like butterflies kissing my
skin. don’t u know that
u’ve infected me, the way

humidity infects mid-July?
one a.m.—i count stars,
but i miss the ones i saw in

ur eyes, bursting with
constellations at golden hour.
u—u don’t know that u saturate

my lungs & rob me of oxygen all at
once, make my pulse come in
dizzying rushes. u struck my body

like a comet, unknowingly cradled
my soul & split it into shards by not
giving me yours. u—

i hear ur laugh a stone’s throw away.
cannot determine whether or not i am
dreaming, but i catch a papery butterfly

wing between my thumb
& index finger.

—u

 

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 two-time winner of the Sarah Mook Poetry Contest. Besides writing, she also enjoys playing the piano and guitar.

all of them, even the boys; says they’re all yellow
eyes and gaping jaws when exposed to the unknown.
this is true: I see them howling at the moon from rooftops
until it tastes empty; I see them try to lick up the sunset
with the sharp-clawed curve of their palms. during class,
I learn to sense when breath means snapping canines will emerge
to devour the latest challenge and then hunt rabbits down
the hall until the water fountains are bled of all familiarity.
if they’re wolves, I ask, what does that make me? I ask
if I’m a wolf too or something even lonelier, nonlinear,
half-drained. no, my math teacher says, adjusting his tortoise-eyes
up the bridge of his nose, you’re the prey, the roots’ raised curve, the sun’s open-eyed longing, says it like he’s praying to be wrong,
like he’s offering to oversee my transformation from prey
to predator, from rabbit to wolf, from conquered to conqueror.
during class, I try to make my shoulders big and sharp-edged.
until it’s rough, all wide-eyed and twitchy. I press soft touch
against coarse fur and will it to become one. my math teacher
watches these efforts—raised hands, slick responses, empty
glares—and shakes his head. I can try to be a wolf all I want,
he decides sadly after class, but I won’t ever transform. even
if the moon fills again, I won’t be able to lap it up. my small
body will just grow mean. I tell him I don’t care; he frowns gently.
it’s a race for the good life, between me and him. I walk away.
my math teacher watches me in worry: he, the tortoise, free from
the wolves’ beautiful howls, and me, the hare, begging for a body
guilty only of intentional harm.

 

 

 

Kyla Guimaraes is a student and writer from New York City. Her work is published in or forthcoming for The Penn Review, Aster Lit, and Eunoia Review, among others, and has been recognized by the Alliance for Artists & Writers and the Young Poets Network. Kyla edits poetry for Eucalyptus Lit, and, in addition to writing, likes playing basketball and watching the sunrise.

 

My roaring fire and ice-cold diet coke.
My mother’s red beret and her dark green coat.
My autumn leaves when they crisp and fall,
My father’s and his father’s market stall.

Ripe cherries when spring sees sun
Sugar snap peas when the cherries are done.
Witches and harlots, their potions and brews,
My faded, burgundy, combat boots.

Old women with narrow eyes and round glasses.
The righteous and hungry roar of the masses.
Shakespeare’s women, their eloquent pain
Dancing in the field when it’s pouring with rain.

The slow blink of a cat keeping secrets.
When a man finally admits his weakness.
Scholars with fig trees and chairs full of books,
When women give each other that knowing look.

When word came down from high above,
And writing, my first and only love.

 

 

 

Grace Hall (she/they) is a nineteen- year-old poet from Northern England. She is a feminist, a Jew, and a history student who feels that Queerness is a great strength in life and in art. Her poetry focuses on themes such as bisexuality, womanhood, love and nature. These themes inspire her daily life and, in turn, her poetry. Grace published her first poem in Unfiltered Magazine at the age of sixteen, and has since published poems in Binge Magazine, Paper Lanterns Literature, Pastel Serenity Zine and the Luna Collective.