Winter Poems/Jan 2021

swirling in a teapot
tinted broth and lemon wedge bones
corrode into corpses

it was the making of marble memories
sharpening knives under the soft glow of stove light
summer sadness cure

charcoal-skinned moon-eyed faces
have been here once
and will be when the sun diminishes into a candle wick
the dying glow wishfully full
so wicked; alive

swirling in the eye of a hurricane
mold collects between dying peels of citrus

they were the last to witness the power of the night
and now no one is left
to recollect
summer

 

Zara Rahman is a spoken word artist dedicated to the craft of creative writing and storytelling. Through written and spoken word poetry, Zara has shared stories with audiences up to 2000 and in more intimate settings. The Toronto based artist holds numerous awards and publications in local competitions and virtual settings. She is also the founder of a nonprofit organization called Youth Professionals, dedicated to BIPOC and LGBTQ+ youth and their future careers. Zara’s goal is to not only teach the craft of creative writing, but to pass down the courage required to express oneself in new and exciting forms.

i spend my afternoons in the heat-soaked house
sitting backwards, watching bark-wrapped hands
push and pull at eggshell dough
kneading a slow heartbeat beneath
an incessant cricket symphony.
i witness the birth of mantou; one, then two
plumps of dusty sugar lining a bamboo basket
warm like the soul she wants to shape me into.

it is hard to describe the space i stopped taking up
when i began drifting into the next world, but
she feels me quietly; watching, learning.

if i inhale too deeply, i may cease to exist:
the afternoon rhythm roots
my empty body
to the stifling, dirt-packed ground.
bike wheels crack gravel outside
and whispering grass hushes laughter.
the sun bakes my cousins’ skin gold
but i keep inside
to spend my afternoons in the quiet
letting her press my bones soft.

 

Alicia Hsu is a Taiwanese-American junior at G.W. Hewlett High School on Long Island, New York. Her poetry is published and/or forthcoming in Euonia Review, Skipping Stones Magazine, Vintage (her school’s creative writing journal), and more. When she isn’t dreaming up new stories or escaping in a fantasy novel, you can find her watching nostalgic movies and taking walks with her two dogs.

we plant seeds like the deeds we forget
to tend like the weeds we need to understand
beauty. weeds are beautiful in the same way
destruction is beautiful. like bleeding
from the prick of a needle. like warnings
we forget to heed. like excavators
of greed. that’s us. we should listen
to our own creed. but we never believe
our promises to achieve. when i was thirteen
we planted trees. i was in desperate need
of a friend. not someone who wanted me to like
pop songs and shopping sprees and to always agree.
having travelled the seas and run out of pleas
i didn’t know then what i would one day see.
now i’ve sown my seeds and i am
rooted among a forest of others like me.

 

After years of relocation, Svetlana Sterlin was raised by her Russian parents in Brisbane, Australia, where she completed a BFA and contributes to Our Culture Magazine and ScreenRant. Her work appears in several publications, including Entropy Magazine, Santa Fe Writers Project, and AndAlso Books’ anthology, ‘Within/Without These Walls’, published in association with the 2018 Brisbane Open House.     [ https://linktr.ee/svetlanasterlin ]

as the moon raises higher
we crawl under barbed wire
and into the fields
that no longer give us their yield

‘us’ meaning our ancestors
who fought off pests, men, and worse
just for the farm to fall
to bankruptcy like a crooked wall
to more crooked powers
“the farm is still ours”
you say to me
as we head towards the tree,
path like muscle memory,
as it’s too dark to see

the tree holds our family’s past
our initials will be the last
for the future is far away
this is a landmark of yesterday.

you turn on the flashlight
no more fleeing, I want to fight
but the bright pink ‘x’ says otherwise
now our entire family dies
with this tree.
our history.
“what will we do with the rest of our lives?”
you hold out the carving knife.

 

Claire McNerney is a student, writer, and performer from California. She loves space fantasy, audio dramas, and bullet journaling. In her free time, she produces the anthology podcast Cumulonimbus.

Through my window,
A leaf falls.
A minuet with the Autumn wind,
Drifting, like a feather-
Down.

I wonder-
Did the leaf see it coming
Surely-
Green, yellow, crimson, brown
How long has it been waiting?

Did it cling onto the stem,
Like a child to its mother, afraid-
Did it plead with the sky
For one more sunrise
Or did it let go, accepting?

Ripping away from the stem,
Did pain erupt blinding?
Did light reflect differently
Did the world halt
For a moment?

Was it like meditation
Riding the waves of air,
Letting out a breath?
Was every color infused with alcohol-
Was gravity a friend

And after it lands
On the sidewalk,
Lifeless, drying, brittle
When whisked off by the wind-
Where does it go?

How, does it end?

One day,
we will know

 

Emma Zhang is an eighth grade aspiring writer who lives in California. Aside from writing, she loves reading, art, creating new drinks, and obsessing over MBTI. This is her first publication.

i.

dreams continue to wither & fade behind
gloomy paint-peeling doors; will you succumb to
your own consternation?
the honey is laced with poison, so
stir in covert fructose imposters–
they’ll drink your stomach acid &
splatter it against the walls in the
shadows: beset with the throes of
femininity, you bleed once more
into your open palm: tea dripping
into porcelain saucer.

ii.

 silent dissension seems tangible in
the dark, saccharine uneasiness
vying for your tastebuds’ attention:
the cloying smell of your vitreous humor
set aflame. hope owes you no favors–
she leaves you suffocating in the night,
acid in your uterus, ash on your
tongue, concrete filling your rib cage.

iii.

 optic struggles, neurotic mindset:
& you gasp as nitric oxide floods your trachea.
vaseline in your salivary glands, sweat in your
follicles, hands on the doorknob, desperate
to burst into the light– & tenebrosity grabs your
ankle, shoving you back into the filth that is
the time after sleep but before streetlights
ignite. witching hour paints constellations on
your hammering chest: your blood, your tears,
your pigment, your penumbra.
cadaver girl, living husk; your heart thrums,
but your aorta is rubber: a charlatan beneath your lungs.
your irises dim, your pupils dilate,
& you’re left in the dark with smoky green tea,
unsweetened and ashen, just as you despise.

 

Mia Golden (she/her) is a teen writer from California with a passion for activism and love for all things chocolate. She is an editor at Interstellar Lit. Mia is published or forthcoming in Indigo Lit and the Trouvaille Review, among others. She hopes you have a great day!