January Poems 2025

            After Jeffrey McDaniel

Sick of the secrets that slide
under window sills,
knock on doors, the government
has outlawed eye contact.

No syrupy smile from the paper
doll waitress who leaves
the menu bruised. Flings herself
towards the man in the back
booth, numb.

The ghost of Mom’s look
twirling the phone cord.
Her candied laugh,
cherry lips.
The other line takes away
her sadness—guess
I couldn’t.

Dad no longer waits
in the driveway oiling
his tongue with rusty
music.

The last thing I remember:
long fingers of gas,
his fading Old Spice,
forehead wrinkles I ironed
with my scratchy fingers

Sometimes,
I wish someone
would see through,
empty.

 

Suhjung Kim is a poet and writer from Seoul, South Korea. Her poems have appeared in Young Writers Journal, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, Eunoia Review, and elsewhere. She writes for her school’s literary magazine, Kaleidoscope, and newspaper, The Tiger Times. She has attended writing workshops with Iowa Young Writers’ Studio and Kenyon Young Writers. When she’s not writing, she enjoys reading books of all genres, listening to music, and swimming.

 

the summer is warm;
i crack open nuts the colour of sticky bees
i will bake a pie for my father / hear it whistling in the oven
i will pick the lambs free of fleas
i will wash my ashen kneecaps each a sun-dried raisin
he says when was the last time we saw the trees

tomorrow i will be full of firm hands
which soon my hands will soon become
tomorrow i will be full of knots and pots and plans
tomorrow i will be the storybook girl weary and neat and good:
say when was the last time we both saw the sun

[pearly slats of light become her silence
and silence is forever becoming]

i will separate the peach seeds from each of their yellow husks:
a worthy dissection (see how much larger they are today)
i will scrape the shelves free of books
replace them with ornaments and picture frames and silly potted plants
father i will free your skin of hooks

when was the last time we saw the —–

and today i will make invisible conserves
from invisible scores of love letters
i will skim the plucked milk / sing a song to make it all better

 

Nabiha is an eighteen-year-old writer who lives in Lancashire. She was previously shortlisted for the 2022 BBC Young Writers’ Award with Cambridge University, is a first-prize winner of the Christopher Tower Poetry Competition with Oxford University, and is a Foyle Young Poet. She is also a recent winner of the Edinburgh 50-word flash fiction competition. She enjoys journal writing in her spare time.

 

back when we came so easy, twin halves cleaved
by merely two years & ten months. Sisterhood:

splintered grapefruits, sticky at solstice. spilt
sunshine, pooling on our canvas floor. scattered

pearls — when we sneak through the vanity, drowning
in silk shirts & wonder if we will ever be beautiful

or at least some synonym of 妈¹ or 爸². under our dewy
mandarin tongues, even part of one’s name is shared

with the other. you are infused in every memory & tale I tell.
an infinity later, I leave for the first time. not even

the ribs of your scarlet-lined dusk can cage me from halfway
across the country. bare flights, new sights, nineteen hours

after I’m gone, & I finally pass it alone. a secret,
coated tart on shaven teeth: 有时候我想一个人³。

snip the nautical naval starcord tied around our necks,
snap our pair jade chokers, shave your first name off

of mine. remember when we planted mailboxes outside
our facing doors? doodles of stamps & chicken scratch

of words. I forgot that my address is no longer home. loss
is more than just letters, but the name of your first crush,

the slant of your scowl, the blue slate of your room.
let me retract every secret I’ve kept but this:

despite it all, for every twin-smile grapefruit slice, I sneak
you the broader half. it is the easiest decision every time.

• 妈: mother
• 爸: father
• 有时候我想一个人: double meaning of “sometimes I want to be alone” or “sometimes I think of only one person”

 

Lia Wang loves stories so much, she decided to create her own. She is the Director of Chapters for The Young Writers Initiative, and her pieces have been recognized by Scholastic Art & Writing, Ice Lolly, JUST POETRY!!!, among others. When not starting another draft, Lia can be found tracing shapes into the clouds. Find her at https://liawangwrites.carrd.co/.

 

gray texts pop up / thanks for making me golden (like you) / talk about the simple and the solemn / (ridiculous and regular, but) i want you like no other / poof! they disappear, no warning / you’re human, like me (though sometimes i forget) / at least i have past presences (presents) to bask in / because if i remember then (i’m reminded of how) i can’t get through / soon, it’s time to try (text) again / maybe i’m not someone (like that) for you / can’t she try sometimes, too? maybe she is (or isn’t) / maybe i’m not (the) one at all / and i have to understand

 

Maisarah Rahman is a(n) (aspiring) person and poet who lives near Boston, Massachusetts.

 

there’s a welcome in the blue awning and a whisper in the coffee, says sweetness
everything about the morning cries out in delicate joy, hunger for sweetness

ushered in with the crisp of Chicago air coats lift and warm bodies settle into
warmth, ready to order? hoops glint against dark coils, her name is sweetness

lengthy list of breakfast items sent off with the turn of her heel against hickory
wood, what’s left is oval dish of salt, pepper, sugar syrup sticky with sweetness

comfortable conversation to fill the days I missed. then: greedy hands reach for
mugs, caffeine, plates arriving by the second, our version of temporary sweetness

tomorrows later only soft happiness will be fossilized in memory reminiscent of pancakes: melting sour cream glazing crisp latkes, salty apple compote. sweetness.

but now only the swell of full bellies can be felt. scent of breakfast lingers in the
cotton fabric, I smile, Hannah opens a door, wind rushes us out, rushing sweetness.

 

Erin Chen is a high school senior currently studying abroad in Singapore. Originally from New York City but having also lived in Hong Kong, Erin most enjoys writing of the mundane and somewhat magical moments in her life from the many locations she’s encountered. Aside from writing poetry, you can find Erin reading a good fantasy novel or whisking up a cup of matcha.

 

like a circle of hawks
you nip at the foreigner in me.
“i’m sorry,” You said, but it was
the way i held guayaba, turning the
bruised fruit with uncertain fingers.
the old vendor gives me a
strained gap-toothed grin, a
burnt cigar tucked between his lonely
front teeth. under this golden-red sun,
your face does not burn and
on the shores of varadero,
i saw You in a little boy
begging tourists for change, nail beds
the browning crust of a cliffside.
You are apologetic, quiet but
obtrusive — a misplaced pebble,
a stray siamese, an illegally parked
russian lada purring quietly. 50
pesos couldn’t chase You away.

 

Robina Nguyen is a student at North Toronto Collegiate Institute. She is the Editor-in-Chief of The Outland Magazine and a researcher at the Canadian Multicultural Inventors Museum. Her work is featured or forthcoming in the West End Phoenix, Blue Marble Review, Shameless Magazine, Disobedient Magazine, The Monarch Ranger, Overachiever Magazine, Queerlings Magazine, Ricepaper Magazine and more.