September 2019

Artisan

By Brittany Adames

In another life, I clawed the world
from the back of my throat

and cradled it to the bone
without making a single sound.

As a child, I would stream my thumb
across the stippled hairs on my father’s

chin—pressed my palms against
the shelf of his belly so I could become

familiar with what is human.
The first boy I fell in love with

carried himself in a long stretch
of pauses—deliberate and full-fledged.

We learned to love with the rhythm
of a labored breath—hushed by

our own inability to keep
ourselves taut and undamaged.

In another life, I hear my mother’s
voice colored by something that

lingers between a blunted breath
and a windowpane’s rattle.

One by one, we learn to love,
our backs bent in a prayer

that never touched our mouths.

Brittany Adames is a Dominican-American writer. Her work has been previously published in CALAMITY Magazine, Bombus Press, Blue Marble Review, TRACK//FOUR, and Rust+Moth, among others. She is pursuing a major in Writing, Literature, and Publishing at Emerson College and currently serves as the poetry editor for Concrete Literary Magazine. She has been regionally and nationally recognized by the Scholastic Writing Awards.

Postcard from San Francisco

By Esther Sun

I am in a cold city that smells of saltwater
and cigarettes. Their crests rising, skyward

roads undulate as homeless men sit on street corners,
their cardboard signs sturdier than their clothes.

The trolleys sing, motherly, a chorus of altos
and fussing construction drills. Believe me,

there’s more to this than meets the sky. Even now
in summer the wind knifes me; the savior sun;

dirty pastel blocks; blinding upsides of cumulus;
Chinatown glows; concrete after rain; the Bay

Bridge shivers; a silky sheen. Up the hill,
the symphony slogs behind closed doors.

Esther Sun is a junior at Los Gatos High School in Northern California. Her work has received national recognition from the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and been published in The Wildcat Review, her high school’s literary magazine.

Happiness

By Pelumi Sholagbade

I finally learned how to take care of myself.
I’m a smile orange-peel wide.
I’m going to die movie-star happy,
Happy like soda left out on the countertop.

The moon is whiter than death. I drown my plants,
I kiss myself to sleep. I don’t talk about birds
Anymore. Can’t think about what it means
To fall. Won’t think about what it means
To fly.

Pelumi Sholagbade is a high school senior from Washington DC. When not writing, Pelumi can be found reading, playing the cello, or failing to fall asleep at night.

Nuyorican

By Micaela Gonzalez

I’m from the dark Bronx, illicit and glowing. where all I eat is simmering ketchup, salty bacon, egg, and cheese, teeth muscles chomping, mouth watering.

I’m from Mayaguez, Puerto Rico where the crystal clear water is perfect, but also my purple pulpo, salty white carrucho, and cheesy yellow sorullos take me back.
I’m from set tables of rice and beans every night and
divine ice cream from Rex Cream, just a hint of spice to the mix.
Don’t forget about mom’s chicken and pig feet, slimy and gooey!
I’m from the bodega on the corner wondering,
“Hey, where’s my Cola Champagne?” The only thing I chug down when I go.

I’m from Nana’s 4-decade-old apartment 3603 15A
Daddy’s raucous basement house on Lake Ave.
On Andrews Ave, Mom and I live a bitter-sweet and spicy heart that cannot be separated….
I’m from a great school with great teachers,
never thinking I could be so well educated.

I’m from my two-story-high-bed with the one medal that makes me proud of
who I am as Micaela Gonzalez, where the butterflies take me away
And the lights give me hope to make the world develop equality.
Cars honking,people yelling: Home is where I am a Nuyorican.

I’m from trips with my dad’s 80s music, “Never gonna give you up, never gonna
let you down, never gonna run around!”
Nights of the coqui’s orchestra, “coqui, coqui.”

I’m from Abuelita Milagros house dreading her to say: “Deja de mirar en el espejo lo va a romper.” (Stop looking in the mirror, you’re gonna break it!) I crack
up every time I hear it.

I’m also from hectic nights of the Latinx version of X-Factor on Telemundo
“Let’s go Eric!”
I’m from dreaming of sports–
from supporting family and friends who encourage me with their weight lifting
hand.
From people who don’t scold me but educate me.

I am putting strength and effort to work hard for my dream to be like Carla
Cortijo, one of the first Puerto Ricans on the WNBA. Even though I am what I
would say trash.

This is a message from a twelve-year-old girl
Chase after your dreams, like a bird looking for its nest.

Micaela is a twelve-year-old Latinx girl, who really takes where she’s from seriously. One day she wants to become a published author to help other Latinx girls know that they can accomplish anything, so submitting poems as a young girl is very important to her. Her teacher has encouraged her to pursue this dream; in addition, this is something she thinks will help her as a student in English class.

carnal

By Macy Perrine

his knuckles,
folded,
untucked the tag
from the heat
of the back
of his neck

and I shivered.

how intimate,
the curl of his fingers
over the pulp
of his own flesh.

I wanted
to dance my lips
against his soil skin
but instead I
pressed them together
bit my tongue the color
of his blooming cheeks
and shivered
in silence.

Macy has been in love with language for as long as she can remember. She specializes in lyrical and spoken word poetry, and after high school plans to major in creative writing and become an editor.

Trigger Warning:Him

By Charlotte Herd

He would stroke my thighs, caress my shoulders, and linger his hands when he should not have done so. He came up behind me, put his arms on either side of me and placed his hands on the desk, trapping me between his pale arms. He planted his chin on my shoulder, positioning his thin lips right next to my ear. He whispered something but I was never able to recall what it was, my brain was in too much shock to process whatever he whispered into my ear. I was only able to focus on what he had just done. He would sometimes place his hands on my lower thighs and slowly move them up, stopping only below where a schoolgirls uniform skirt would be hemmed. He once took me by the arm, and placed his hand on my lower back, pushing me along even if I didn’t need to be guided into wherever he was taking me. I had told this man my issues, my worries, things that ran through my head. He was essentially a father figure to me. I trusted him, but unfortunately, he deceived me.

I joined Academic Decathlon at the end of my sophomore year after the coach and a friend managed to convince me. I walked into the classroom where the interest meeting was being held in with a couple of my friends. We had heard the basics before from the coach, one topic, ten subjects, and some competitions.

I quickly started to gain a liking to the club. I would show up to the classroom after school to catch up on practice or just to talk to the coach. I ended up trusting this man a lot; I would tell him about my struggles with classes, my mental health or anything that bothered me. I soon realized that I trusted him too much. He took advantage of me and my vulnerability. He knew things that went through my head and so he went behind my back. I should have known how manipulative he was from the minute he beguiled me into Academic Decathlon. There were multiple times where I was uncomfortable under his touch and even his gaze.

During English my heart was racing, it was the last class of the day which meant I had to go to practice for AcDec right after. My body was filled with anxiety; I did not want to see him again. The bell rang, my vision got blurry as I gathered my things, getting ready to leave. The ink on my papers started to bleed as my tears fell and created puddles of black and blue. I stuffed my belongings into my bag, not caring if they got torn since they were already ruined. Everyone had already left the classroom; it was just me and my English teacher. He tried making small talk, asking if I was working later that day but quickly abandoned his questioned and replacing it with “Are you okay?” That only seemed to make things worse, he kept telling me that it was okay and asking me to tell him what happened. After calming down enough I explained why I was upset, I explained why I was crying and explained why I didn’t want to go to practice. I explained to him that one of the people I trusted the most had taken advantage of my weaknesses and used them to make me feel repulsive.

He looked at me for a while, his hand covering his mouth but I could see his jaw dropped. He kept looking at me as I cried in the desk I had used to demonstrate how the man I trusted had touched me and betrayed me. After some time of us sitting in the dark he apologized,— he told me he would have to tell my principal about this, that he couldn’t just listen to this and go on as if he didn’t hear something.

It was Thursday, February 1st; I had just gotten back from my internship and walked into my US History class. We had a big test and I had studied for this. I was confident. The teacher passed around the test, wished us luck and let us begin. Not even five minutes into the test the teacher got a call. She answered and said “She’s taking a test right now, can she go in later?” Throughout the rest of the call she made eye contact with me so I knew I was the subject of the conversation. “The principal wants to talk to you.” I walked into the office, my heart was racing. I pushed the door open and saw her sitting behind a desk cluttered with papers, an empty seat in front of the desk and another chair occupied by a school security officer. Seeing the security officer in the office made my heart drop. My vision got blurry fast, my face got hot and my knees started to feel weak. The principal and the officer shared the same look of concern on their face, I was handed tissues and told to take some seconds to calm down. “Your teacher told us what happened. We just want you to tell us what exactly happened.”

After explaining to them how I had my body violated by this man I was asked to write out the report. Making it the third time I had to explain what happened. My parents had not known yet but I decided on telling my sister what happened that night when I got home. She was furious, she went on and on about how messed up it was for him to do that, how no one has a right to touch me like that, how it’s important to stand up for myself in situations like this. Eventually I had to tell my mom, shortly after I was forced into talking to district detectives, Child Protective Services, and even more district detectives. This went on for the last half my junior year.

At some point after the second meeting with a detective, he stopped showing up to work. A handful of people knew the reason as to why he was gone; the rest of the school did not. A rumor about him breaking his hip started going around the school, this was better than people knowing the truth and blaming me for his absence. People later started to realize that he had been gone for longer than the recovery time for a broken hip. Soon, teachers started gossiping as well, everyone wanted to know why he was gone. Being in a classroom where half the class was spent talking about this made me want to crawl out of my skin.

My English teacher ended up having to be the one to put in grades for his class while he was gone. I felt guilty for this; I saw his workload pile on because of something I could have kept to myself. I felt guilty for everything that happened because of me deciding to come forward. I regretted it, “if I would have not said anything things would be better.” This is something I constantly told myself. I blamed myself for him not being able to work. I blamed myself for my teacher’s increased workload, I thought that since he wasn’t here, his students weren’t able to pass the AP test for his class. I blamed myself for all of these things.

My senior year he came back along with the nightmares; dreams of him doing worse things. I wake up in cold sweats and lie in bed until my alarm clock goes off signaling me to get ready to face him at school. Because even after being investigated I had to sit in silence while he got to stay on paid leave and keep his five-figure wage. So, I sit in my classrooms in fear that one of my dreams will no longer be a dream but a reality. I avoid his hallway at all costs and risk getting to class late. My friends have gotten annoyed of this and I can tell, anytime I refuse to pass his den they roll their eyes as they turn around, but I notice. I feel bad for it but I can’t change it, I want to be braver and face him and show him that I don’t care about what he’s done but I can’t.

Born and raised in Dallas, Texas, Charlotte is an eighteen year old who during her free time enjoys listening to music, making jewelry, and practicing her embroidery skills. She will be attending Texas Woman’s University in the fall of 2019 and plans on majoring in Kinesiology and later becoming an Occupational Therapist.