Winter Poems 2022

today and i didn’t plan time to wallow
in your absence, so i was splattered with

the lack of you again, bathed in loss so sweet
i almost mistook it for your hands

running down my chest. i can’t help
the cringe my face coils into when i hear

silverware scraping against porcelain.
or the way i dig my nails into my tingling

calf to coax it out of numbness. i flinch
when the walls crack their knuckles.

i don’t have a reflex for you. i’m stuck

in this hellhole where phantom hands
send chills down my body in the way i always

wanted you to touch me. when the white of
the snow sheets slapping against my window

catch my eye, i prepare to converse with
the ghost of you. the hairs on the small

of my back rise in the outline of your
handprint— my body still a snow angel

you keep coming back to make.

 

 

 

Nila Narain (they/he) is a queer Tamilian poet and creator studying computer science and creative writing at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. They have previously been published in Serotonin Poetry, giallo lit, and perhappened. In their spare time they like to sing, dance, and stress-craft.

for my cousins on the other side of the 38-seon*

 i wonder / could we have been // (real) family / had they not
chiseled our / fate & had jo-//-seon not been / scissored apart. scarred.
i beg this / epistolary // not become an / elegy

 

*38-seon: the 38th parallel north, the line that divides North and South Korea

 

 

Skylar is a high schooler from South Korea who enjoys writing poems that help her make sense of real events and experiences. Her work appears in The Daphne Review.

I don’t walk how I used to and I piss on almost everything:
doorframe corners, the humming refrigerator, table legs,
human legs, couch cushions, flowerpots, unshelved shoes—
anywhere but the backyard. It’s sacred out here.
I can ignore the puppyish tremor of my limbs
and see out my good eye the world’s slow-turning marvels.
The haunt of grass. The baby bees, clutching their pollen.
Oh, the troves of dirt I once unearthed, the holy hills.

I have tried to tell my owner, silly girl and awful listener,
of all the names and places of things. That I have deciphered
the secrets of our shared niche, and the codes cannot be viewed
from beneath the blankets of the comforter I am shoved off,
nor are they hidden alongside a ham treat, enclosed in her fist.
I’ve yowled at her, in my most potent and insistent snaps:
Have you seen the dreary socks in the laundry basket?
The lines between the kitchen tiles? The color of my fur?
The dogged flickering of lightbulbs, dreaming in the ceilings?

 

Isa Mari De Leon is a Filipinx American writer. She is currently studying English at the University of California, Berkeley. A previous English tutor, publishing intern at W. W. Norton & Company, and game writing intern at Riot Games, Isa is a student of any form of writing she can get her hands on. When not reading or writing, she might be playing with her dog, studying in a library, or playing video games very, very poorly.

 

 

I sit back and lean into the turn
urging her forward with my hands.
We turn and weave down the black and white poles.
She takes advantage of me and edges into the lope.
I half halt her to bring her back to the trot,
but the damage is done.
Disappointment flickers across my face
but I won’t let that ruin my run.
Loping is forbidden in the kingdom of walk/trot.
One stride and you’re out.
Last pole on the row, and we swing wide.I guide her back to the poles, and
we turn sharp, and head home.
We trip the timer
I hold my breath hoping.
The announcer calls out my fate.
“Unfortunately, that was a no time for Clara Harden.”
I lean forward, pet her and
walk out of the arena thinking who cares.
It was a good ride.
She did great,
But even now I still long for that shiny ribbon.

 

 

Clara Harden is a student at St. Patrick’s School, in Rolla, Missouri

 

I am a simple painter, though I do not feel as such;
I see things no one else can see, that no one else can touch.
The crinkle, crinkle of dry leaves evokes a satin grey;
The sunlight on my skin tastes like an exceptional sirloin filet.
When music plays, I see the scenes that write out just for me:
The cello’s rich hum is sticky sap, an amber filigree;
A clarinet can conjure smells of lovely cinnamon toast,
While a cryptic triangle reminds me of a ball hitting a goalpost.
A wild violet sky erupts as a tuba gives a blahhht
And a smooth glass window is a grand piano’s coup d’etat.
Round and round the instruments go, kicking up whirlwinds
That transfers to my humble brush, from which the art rescinds
To the blank canvas on my easel. Oh, what a beautiful sight!
But art is not enough to feed me or keep me warm at night.
I am a simple painter, though I do not feel as such;
I see things no one else can see, that no one else can touch.

 

 

 

Savannah Carmichael is a sophomore Creative Writing major at Truman State University. Previously she was given a Dishonorable Mention in the 2020 Bulwer-Lytton contest. In her free time, she enjoys acting and being scared senseless by a good piece of horror.