Issue 38

she’s caught between frames—
right hand blurred, reaching
for something beyond paper edges.
mom says you can’t capture lightning
but the camera tried anyway:
her laugh mid-spark, hair
a storm cloud of possibility.

this was before college applications,
before she learned to pose for expectations.
back when summer meant cut-off
shorts and raspberry-stained fingers,
when she still believed
the world could hold all
her wild without breaking.

now she sends photos from seattle,
perfectly filtered, properly posed.
but i keep this one magnetic
on my fridge: motion-smeared sister,
forever seventeen, eternally
suspended in the moment before change.

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, they practice archery and sell watercolor paintings of Texas wildflowers.

for Uncle Keith

You were the most American American
I ever knew.

We lived in a red brick house
on Arbor Gate Drive
where I blew bubbles in the backyard
and danced to singing summer cicadas
under the supervision of the setting sun.

An electric guitar playing,
gold chain wearing Odysseus
with long blonde hair dyed pink,
you were an 80’s rockstar turned trucker
who sailed state to state searching for stories.

Before that tired metaphor unraveled within you,
you sat on the porch whistling folk tunes
for the crowd of ladybugs on leaves,
a purple freeze pop in hand
because you gave the last red one to me.

My mind an eroding memorial,
I am trying to recall the exact color
of your southern drawl,
but time has taken from me my memories
and worn you down to a distant echo.

If the Constitution protects
life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,
why did it not step in to put out
the level five wildfire
blazing in your lungs?

You were Keith the Great
who spoke in peculiar English idioms
and greeted strangers like old friends,
who breathed in struggle
and exhaled out strength.

You were Keith the Great
who made sure I lived
amongst the evergreens, and you had no place
in that hungry hospital room.

The day the doctors told Aunt Vanessa
there was nothing left they could do,
I wore armor to school and sat
in Ms. Womble’s ELA class
bracing for the impact,

but it never came—not for a while,
you see, grief arrived
more like the slow roll
of an ocean tide
and knocked on my heart

like the pendulum of incense
the priest with his rosary
swung back and forth,
back and forth,
back and forth.

I crossed the wooden bridge that separated
the parish from the columbarium
and stood before your niche,
but I knew the man who lived life
with his windows rolled down rested elsewhere.

Six years ago,
the red brick house grew quiet:
its faucets thirsty,
its doors motionless,
its curtains drawn.

Forgetting once felt easier
than remembering,
but I now want nothing more
than to hear the rumble of your laughter
break the silence of a late spring night.

You kept my picture day photo in your wallet,
and I keep our last image together on the desk
where I got into private school,
where I realized I wanted to write,
where the dreams you once pushed me to achieve

became reality.
Your love for 90’s detective shows,
the small things,
and slow moving Sunday mornings
survives in me.

On a tree-lined road
in the northeast
of a tranquil Texas town,
there lived a great philosopher
who rose before I could say goodbye.

Nia Cao is a Vietnamese-American poet living in Massachusetts. She is the 2024-25 winner of the Smith College High School Poetry Contest and has had her work recognized by the New York Times, Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, Longfellow Poetry Contest, and Storm King Poetry Contest. In her free time, she likes to listen to music and travel.

between your palms and mine
evolution takes root.
each moment we share becomes
a dream planted in fertile ground
growing free and true
not even wild storms or scorching sun
can destroy the garden we have started.
our joy will bloom like morning glories
climbing toward tomorrow’s light
while yesterday’s worries
fall away like autumn leaves,
leaving only strong branches
like your heart entwined with mine
waiting to grow wings and soar.

Emecheta Christian is a multi-talented artist and writer. His fiction, poetry, and illustrations have been featured in numerous publications, including Arts Lounge Magazine, Writefluence Anthology, Synchronized Chaos Online Journal, The Decolonial Passage, and Mocking Owl Roost, among others. Beyond his literary pursuits, Christian is also a skilled computer scientist. When inspiration strikes, he enjoys composing songs as well. In his free time, Christian delights in reading, watching movies, and letting his imagination wander. He looks forward to the opportunity to explore the world soon.

1. Let it happen.

Hold the weight like water.

Watch it slip between your fingers,

because it will.

(It’s supposed to slip.)

2.Name it.

Call the ache by its true name.

Say: this is grief.

Say: this is love without its home.

Say it into the mirror until it feels real like the air you breathe.

3.Build rituals.

Light a candle in the morning.

Burn the edges of a photograph,

not to forget, but to honor.

Make offerings of time:

a walk, a prayer,

a song on repeat.

4.Talk to the empty spaces.

Let your voice fill the silence in rooms that never asked for it.

Say: I miss you.

Say: I don’t know how to keep living,

but I am trying.

The walls will listen.

The walls have always listened.

5.Learn patience.

Wait for the day when breathing feels normal again.

(It will come.) Wait for the day when a memory

doesn’t crack you open.

Let the hours pass without counting.

6.Accept imperfection.

Healing won’t arrive dressed in white.

It will crawl on its hands and knees.

It will look like forgetting, sometimes.

(You won’t be ready, but it will come anyway.)

7.(but can you?)

(is it even possible to hold loss without it breaking?)

(what does “master” even mean––)

(what does it mean to master loss,

when the loss has mastered you?)

(why does it feel like I’m still sinking—)

8.(wait, no, go back. start over. I mean—

light a candle. name it. tell the walls but they just

echo, and what if that’s all there is? what if I

never learn how to stop? what if—)

9.Carry it—

(no. forget carrying. it carries you.)

(is this step seven? or eight? what step am I on when the steps don’t—)

10.Hold on until—

Emily Liu is a poet and writer based in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her work explores the liminal spaces of identity, memory, and transformation. When she’s not writing, she enjoys curating Spotify playlists and roaming the city with friends in search of the perfect boba spot.

Morning draping gentle
and golden, two soft arms around me.
Kentucky heat, like a lazy dog,
and little fingers, kneading mud pies
dotted with bluebells.
Tire swings, my brothers’ scabbed knees,
hair curling up towards the sun.
Lemonade and sweet, dusty bodies washed clean,
skin still wet, sitting on the cabin porch.
Watching the sky change,
tangerine horses dancing, dragging
coal black tails behind them.
Lines traced in the soil, once smooth,
like the gaps between my teeth pulled closed.
Time, a potter’s wheel, the way it stretches and bends.
“Two ways,” Hemingway says, “Gradually, then suddenly.”

Caelan DiCosmo is a junior at Maggie L. Walker Governors School. Her work has been recognized in Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and published in The Weight Journal and The Milking Cat.