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STAFF

Mary Halabani PresidentAaron Guyette Vice PresidentKali Norris Editor in ChiefMariyah Rajshahiwala Chief of PublicationRaisa Santos Senior Format EditorAbeer Naeem Format Editor Ravenn Haynes Format EditorRiana Kolari Format Editor Gina Rivieccio Senior EditorSophie Shnaidman Senior Editor Zainab Iqbal Senior EditorMaryam Ahmad EditorHira Tahir EditorRoksana Jasiewicz EditorSaelly Alvarez EditorMic Braun EditorToni Coleman EditorHinda Dinowitz EditorVivian Khaskin Head of Events Committee Gabriella Calderone Head of Events Committee Alissa Marino Events CommitteeSapir Sirota Events CommitteeHafsa Fatima Events CommitteeCarissa Normil Events CommitteePheobe Law Events CommitteeFrances Shnaidman Graphic DesignerIsaar Tahir Graphic Designer Galit Mamrout Photographer

Covert Art by Frances Shnaidman

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Contributors

Ahnaf Zitou Akmal Salim Alana Silberg

Alyna ValderramaAnes/N.S. Ahmed

Anthony Sepulveda Ardijana Kukic

Ashlee Mellowes Asia Acevedo

Avery LiebermanBethany Friedmann Biseyata Deshmya

Brianna NealBrie Rose

Camila DejesusCarrie-Anne Murphy

Charlene Catalano Christine Sloan Stoddard

Danny Lowe Daniel Edelstein

Denise Davis Diana Harman Doria Wohler

Emma Bean Simmons Enrique Peña

Eytan Galanter Fatema Islam

Gina Rivieccio Grace Paré

Gulshan Ashaque I. Ash

Ilana IskhakovaJanikaa JacksonJavier RiverosJawaria TahirJean Zhicay

Jerome BrownJessica Deleon

Jessica Drigun-Lara Joelle Cohen

Johnny LawrenceJoseph Austin

Julia AndresakisKali NorrisKate Podias

Kathleen Conlon Khurram AliLatife Lita

Lauren BrendleLia Hauser

LilyLiz Larson Mariam Esa

Mark D. Morales Maryam Ahmad Mary Halabani

Merari Hernandez Merna Ibrahim

Mic BraunMichelle Gambale

Miles Mercer Monica Saw-Aung

Moshe ShalomMrittika Deb

Nat ElizaNatalie MosseriNatoya Hutson

Nolan Patrick FronteraOriya Abed

Poetic Unknown Quentin Felton

Rachel AugustinRiana Kolari

Romel MartinezSamantha Merzel Samantha Paucar

Sarah Yazdi Sebastian Dejean

Shadae Brown Shannon Addonizio

Shavi DouglasStained Napkins

Tess StofkoToni Coleman

Vicky Lee Zainab Rehman

Zana Naveed

4

SOME CONTENT MAY BE SENSITIVE FOR SOME READERS.

“Some things are scary. Writing about them is scarier. Keep staying strong and write on.”

-Stuck in the Library Staff

5

My body is vacant. I am vacant. But if letting you walk through the aching corners of my body

Will push words out of your mouth Tell me how you actually feel about me then

I’ll pave the way for you Show you all the shortcuts.

I’ll open every wound; healed or not. I’ll sew my heart shut

Become the empty vessel you can own. Let you leave fingerprints on my body, I can wash off if I scrub hard enough.

Make my body less of a sin.

VacantZainab Rehman

6

She was astonishingly beautifulIn that way that one can only get

by avoiding the newsHer unblinking, unwrinkled eyes

Her laugh, a brookEvery thought, a melody

The kind of person civilization was created to protect

CaliforniaCarrie-Anne Murphy

7

Let’s both go upand climb that building

Let’s find a gateLet’s be quiet

Past the residentsPast the super

Past twelve o’clockOn that rooftop

Let’s look belowThose onlookers with their heavy bags

Look at us in our lightnessLook at us on this rooftop

What should we accomplish tomorrow?

Let’s Climb A Rooftop

Jean Zhicay

8

My heart breaksFor I can’t remember his faceI chased after him But he had already said goodbyeI clung to him But he was already leaving

The face of a man I once knewBut more deviousTo him my eyes were KaleidoscopesBird calls in the Bushwick trees

I was a cat in the darknessHe was tall in the moonlightThough it wasn’t rainingLightning struck within the storm clouds

Our eyes glowed in the darkIn the window I saw my skeletonAnd in the mirror I saw my ghostIn the moon I saw his shadowIn the dark we saw each other

COY OR KOITess Stofko

There was no soundOnly the hammering of hearts

Gasping for breathWhen he held me so tight

I was sure our souls could have mergedAlmost

I would have preferred it if he had left as I sleptEver so often I catch a glimpse of his face

Within my memoryAs he smiled

Sitting on the benchHe looked half evil

And I walked towards him.

9

humans make contracts with other humansbut we are animals

who also devourcontracts and spit

them in the woods

paper pulpcarpets the soil

like moss

forget honorforget clausesforget policies

signatures are invalid

with beastsroaming the land

i hold up the camera

and beckon youto smile

but you can bareyour teeth

any way you choose

portraits of

friendsChristine Sloan Stoddard

10

I woke up one morningOne groggy morning I looked into my broken mirror In lieu of my tired reflectionI found his deranged face Prophetically staring back at me

That was the day it started

The paranoia nipping at my every thoughtI head down 55th, till the sun’s gone, till it’s just 5thI feel blisters forming under my feetBut I just can’t stop

The frigid air numbing my mindThe aggressive breeze hugging my body Is my only comfort

As I walk from East to WestI wander aimlessly as I search desperatelyLooking for a hint of a familiar face that’s seen “ME” beforeTo tell me that I’m still “ME”

When I finally find it!They’ll bring “ME” somewhere beautiful Somewhere warmFinally, as I pour out my grievances I’ll come back to life

but it gets colder everydayand even the old faces look at me differentso I keep walking from west to east, 5th to 55th

What a small cityZana Naveed

11

A shadow awaits youNot at all a shadow of deathPrecisely, a shadow of love.

A silhouette of connection and compassionA soul of beauty, a goddess.

A knight in suited armor, a kingA silhouette of trust and loyalty.

A soul fulfilled with hopes and promisesA silhouetted shadow of dreams

A silhouetted soul of love.The urge to unmask a guilty pleasure.

How can one silhouette be so mysteriousYet, so beautiful?

Silhouette Soul

Brianna Neal

12

Change doesn’t suit me well

I can’t handle visitors leaving my house

So what makes anyone think

that when you left it’d be easier?

We didn’t talk much due to prior commitments,

Your music and school, my school work,

Although the days we spent together

Usually left me happy.

Your presence was always enough.

College came closer and closer,

But I failed to see the connection

That you were leaving to follow music.

Don’t get me wrong!

I’m so proud of my sassy sibling,

But the vanishing

Was so sudden.

Your room is always closed

Like a forbidden temple with boobytraps.

Your pictures around the house became WANTED signs,

The locks on the front door became permanent,

Keeping our family in and the world unwelcomed.

Ode to SiblingAlyna Valderrama

13

The social butterfly had left with all the social,

And the silence is the worst part.

Your music, your passion, your motivation, your glee,

It all annoyed me on certain days,

But I’d give anything to hear your flute

Or a Rachel solo again.

It’s so empty, like how you left me here.

Your perished presence here is so far away

Like the space between these words.

And I can’t seem to get over

How many calls can fill

My water gun tears.

I can’t shake this feeling

No matter how much music I play.

I miss you.

You were never one to show emotion,

But I’m not you,

I miss you so much!

Thanksgiving will be a hopeful reunion

And an intermission to my sadness

before being called for curtain once more.

I just hope you make it

And don’t shut me out because of all the tears

I ever spilled for you.

I’m sorry that I care so much,

But I love you,

And nothing will change

My love

Through this tremendous change for me.

14

I walked you to the steps of your home under the brightness of the moon in chrome.

We bear witness through the windows to our soul a bright hearth that made us feel whole.

The faint roar of an airplane overheadas I cradled you through the gusts of winter’s cold. We felt warm knowing we had each other to hold

and I held your hands in mine and I said:

If you could be anywhere, where would you go?With a smile, the whole world was hers

including my being, as my surroundings blur and we kissed as time began to slow.

A heartfelt promise was made, That I’d take you across my hidden heartland

holding you, hand-in-handwhere I wanted to be and where I stayed.

Now, I reminisce un-futures to be briefly escaping the present that has trapped me.

Falling into a rigid wall of self-recallI wonder, ponder, and doubt

if someone, anyone, truly loves me, all-out,for that is the question asked by all.

Thus, upon the faintest roar from the skies abovemy life stalls, and I think of you with love

hoping you are warm in life, adventuring thereof.

True StoryJavier Riveros

15

I walk this lonely pathA dark one indeedWith bushes and thornsWhile my feet bleed

I do not know where I goFor it is quiet and darkAnd in the abyss I stumble When the hounds in the shadows bark

A Rugged Path

Jawaria Tahir

And I cross the rickety bridgeHigh over the bottomless stream

It creaks and wavers under my feetWhile I wonder why I dream what I dream

Because in my head There is a world

Full of hopes Where life unfurled

And light and goodnessBut I am aware

That it’s just a dreamWeaved by me, to forget the despair

So walk with courageAnd know not to falterOr hesitate or stumble

For this dream too will alter

And let light inUnited will be

The thorns and roses And the hounds will run and flee

16

I found my pride on the bathroom floor.Unconscious, bloody, bruised,And in tattered clothing.

Alone. You left him there without a moment’s notice.

Thinking you would be gentle with him I put him aside to speak to you,To be seen by you,To be touched by you,Hoping to be loved by you.

But you grew bored of me,Like a movie you’ve seen one too many times. Your exit strategy was to practice your disappearing act, I didn’t want to witness a magician’s craft.

You left me there,Kneeling on my bedroom floor to play 52 pickup with my heart.A few cards were stuck to the bottom of your Stan Smiths,And as you left, I could do nothing but watch you step on them.

I got out of your car,Backpack on my shoulder.Giving you one last glance,I watched as your car sped down my block.

3:14 AMMiles Mercer

You flung everything I gave you out your window:My innocence,My patience,My heart.My first.

And to think,This all started because you looked at me with that stupid smile.That pearly white smile on that beauti-fully mocha face,You could seduce the pope.

But shouldn’t I feel grateful?After all,My inspiration comes from pain and isolation,I have a cornucopia of creations.

It’s one thing to say I don’t want you anymore.It’s another thing to look you in your eyes,In those beautiful brown eyes and say:“I don’t long for you at 3:14 a.m. in my empty bed anymore.”

17

Mind starts to wonder when I see your face

Heart is torn and so misplaced

Guessing that I’m moving at too slow a pace

Makes me feel like a waste of space

Your intelligence speaks volumes above mine

Poems, letters, questions for you unwind

When I think I’m in behind and I’m even further down in the race

I know I feel like a waste of space

I was a gift as a friend, though I never wanted more

But you let them get closer to you, making my heart sore

Your kindness and care was something more than a case

But I always lost, cause the judge called me a waste of space

Being friends with you is a more than a man could ask

And it’s something I will have to always face

But I ask you one thing, as a small favor or task

Please don’t look at me as a waste of space...

Waste of SpacePoetic Unknown

18

Even eternity ends, but it wasn’t supposed to end like this.

The sun wasn’t made for me. I need something fiercer.

There is no deciphering the fragile rapture of living things,

even as I deconstruct my own worship of water.

Devotion is a desert, and speaks its own language,

soft meditations on the nature of solitude, surgical.

Split lipped sidhe, the unforgiveness of land,

grief reincarnated as a waiting grave.

I treat time as technicality,

cracking the sepulcher of sleepless nights

like communion drywall in places you called home.

Shrine unsheathed, cordate, a tower of identical dead,

a murder of moths as omen for the end.

I know something lived here once.

In Penance for Murdered OrchidsKali Norris

19

To be looked for

To be found

To adore

To be crowned

For all men she is a legend

To find, a lifelong dream

Yet, for one, she is destined

Only one, to make her team

To be protected, day out day in

To never leave her holder’s sight

To be kept deep within

To be for him, his heart’s delight

She is searched for by all around

Because of her there is just one

Ocean to ocean she is not found

For her man has already won

Her price is undefined

She is of value to no measure

To be cherished, to be enshrined

Because for him she is a treasure

TreasureMoshe Shalom

20

I’ve seen Jupiter

On the woman I love,

Shamed by society

To hide with insecurity.

Behind the denim stiches

Of stone-washed jeans.

I’ve seen Jupiter

In my morning cup,

As I stir milk in my coffee.

A dancing affair of color,

Hurricanes spinning about.

Colliding, creating

Moles, birthmarks,

Stretched across the skin.

Eyes of hazel Jupiter,

Don’t shame the imprints

Brush strokes on an interstellar canvas.

Natural tattoos on our bodies.

JupiterStained Napkins

21

Red lines skirmish under the words I write But if Shakespeare can make up words, can’t I too?

This issue must be taken outside the classroom, Because in it we are only fixated on his plays, right?

The world map is the same upside down, try to turn it around, Your smiling frown keeps things straight, but the math doesn’t add Up

It should be an ellipse, a physical skin-bound eclipse So you may not speak, unless it’s in rhythm So you may not seek, unless its decided by a decision

It’s not a choice to have a choice, so please don’t joice again

Did I write it wrong, is the meaning off? Will my song become a poem, unharmonized Will the poem become a bandit, an un-free verse

He who will not be named, but please refer to line two, when I tell you, That this man’s take on a mistake, was an expression, too excessive, His fact that you can take, a letter or two, and turn it to word, undefined, an automatic rhyme, created from atoms, not that it matters, But know he is a deity, dead, and forever free.

So, I’ll choose, I’m contradicted, and I’ve lost, forgive me so I may conclude, To take my word and add it to the dictionary, he did, so can’t I too?

To play god is scary, but leave the plays to Shakespeare, I’ve broken my own law, like my poem turned gangster, I’m no longer divine, or to be PC (poetically correct), human.

For god doesn’t make mistakes, but humans do.

And we know joice is not a word and Arthur Miller was no Shakespeare, but he was human too.

CommentsKhurram Ali

22

I know that you are nervous

and that you are afraid

After all,

nothing like this has ever

come your way

Something so beautiful,

as to captivate your heart,

so as to make you its prisoner;

One you’re glad to be.

I know you are frightened.

It’s only natural to be.

Just take deep breaths,

and know you can always rely on me.

Never forget to pursue

what your heart desires.

And to hold close to you,

all you hold dear.

Do not worry so much,

and things will be okay.

My dear friend,

just take deep breaths

for it will be alright.

Deep Breaths

Mariam Esa

23

If every “I’m sorry”

were a snowflake

we’d be stuck in an eternal winter

with howling winds

and no visibility

If every “I’m sorry”

were a raindrop

the streets would flood

and people would drown

in your words

If every “I’m sorry”

were a shooting star

I’d make a thousand wishes

but none of them

would come true

SorryGina Rivieccio

If any “I’m sorry”

meant anything

at all

then maybe

I’d forgive you

But instead

The words “I’m sorry”

drum in my brain

bouncing off the walls

echoing in the space created by

the absence

of a real apology

24

Normally I Hate Everyone people say that I’m Not Okay

Every single day I’m Miserable At Best

But there’s something about you that’s Irresistible

I think it might be All The Small Things

That make me feel Victorious when I’m with you

You tell me Lying is the Most Fun a Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off

But I’m Still Into You, doesn’t matter what you do or say

Dear Maria, Count Me In

The songs we listen to together; you call me emo trash

But it’s my favorite stuff so I Don’t Care

So Thnks Fr Th Mmrs the artists born in 1985

Pop Punk/emo trash Ahnaf Zitou

25

1. I don’t believe in God.2. When I said that, you implored, “You must believe in something.” My first

reflex was to say that I believe in myself. But do I? Would it be egocentric and condescending to say “I believe in Myself” in the same vein as a person saying “I believe in God?”

3. Most of the time, I believe in my friends more than I believe in myself. It is easier to see from the circumference of a circle than from the center, all the tangled points equally within reach. Nothing to distinguish left from right, I turn and turn.

4. I don’t believe in God, but I admire people who do. Some days, I find it hard to believe in myself when I wonder about the choices I make, the food I eat, the classes I take. Will I ever amount to anything in life, and will it matter if I do or don’t? There are too many what if’s, too many diverging streams from the river I’m sailing down. It’s like Jorge Luis Borges and his garden of forking paths, each choice spiraling into a new infinity. Universes layered like transparencies over a projector, alternate lives tangled so deeply that not even light can unravel the knot.

5. Even so, cogito ergo sum: I think, therefore I am. Although I am, my life is riddled with variables that can’t be solved for and problems with no clear solution. This isn’t an equation and even if it were, I’m a terrible mathematician.

6. Although I can see my hands in front of me and my reflection in the mirror, it is difficult to believe in myself. These days, it is difficult to believe in anything. To believe in God – to have faith in a higher power that you cannot see or hear – that takes courage.

7. I still don’t believe in God, but thank you for striking up a conversation with me yesterday evening. I’m sorry to say that I’m not attending your Bible study at seven o’clock.

Open Letter to the

Bible Study Guy at Brooklyn College

Monica Saw-Aung

26

You think you love him,

You are so certain you love him,

this intense cyclical love, so good if you saw it in a movie you’d roll

your eyes and think it’s unrealistic,

you fall without looking, with abandon, too quickly, too much, too

certainly,

And then he leaves,

So it leaves you thinking

You only love someone as much as you miss them

And God did I miss you.

He only means as much as that vacuous feeling you get seeing the sky turn

his favorite shade of vibrant blue

And you feel your shoulders drop,

and these good memories weigh you down in a way you never thought they

would,

down like one of those cartoon villains with a blunt weight attached to their leg,

slowly sinking beneath that vibrant blue ocean

that you once danced underneath.

You only love him as much as it hurts when he goes.

and God did it hurt.

You realize you’re walking around with a hole,

He was gone, so the only thing left was his tangible absence,

Something was removed, excised recklessly, but some part of you loves the

misery, because it’s the last thing he left you.

November 16th

Joelle Cohen

27

You look around and wonder if anyone else is caught in the waves of lost

love, if anyone else aches at the winter wind that whistles through them,

feels a sucking of empty space,

The cold reminds you of what you lost, and warmth reminds you of what

you had.

It always all comes back to him,

The love was cyclical,

and so was the loss.

So you feel crazy for a while, completely out of your mind,

like some conspiracy theorist who abandons their reality and desperately

seeks to right it.

He’ll come back, right?

People look at you like you’re crazy, too - a bated breath, a pitiful look,

“You know he’s not dead, right?”

As if in some of your insanity, you’ve forgotten the thing your sense of

gravity revolves around- how very sanely, incredibly, veritably alive he is,

without you.

28

NYC, a city filled with 8.6 million people from every place

known to man

Skyscrapers and buildings decorate the skyline

Yellow taxis and black vans roll down the streets

Millions of conversations buzzing all at once

No such thing as a red light, the light is always green in NYC

We never stop, we are always moving.

NYC, the land of opportunity

“Make it here, make it anywhere” they say

Home for all dreamers, who wish to make it big

Gatekeepers of dreams are dormant in the city’s alleys.

Hundreds are looking for a way in.

But how do you get accepted across the bridge into NYC?

What is the magic word, the secret knock, the password in?

Am I stuck on the opposite side of the bridge, shackled to

these Brooklyn roots?

I am rooted in Brooklyn— so hard to plant a new seed, even

one not so far away.

I’m just a Brooklyn girl, searching for that NYC dream.

NYC DreamerMichelle Gambale

29

“In my home town as kids

we would sit in a circle

and make bracelets

out of these flowers.”

She made me a bracelet that day too.

The flower caught her eye

but I hadn’t noticed it

growing

among the rest of the weeds

that grew outside the gates

bordering the school garden.

After making a silent wish

she ripped off the head of the flower,

the fluid from the stem

clinging to the skin on my wrist.

The makeshift bracelet

eventually turned brown and

I didn’t realize it

fell off

while we walked to the bus stop.

“I don’t understand why we

wish on these weeds

pretending to be flowers.”

Wishing FlowerMerari Hernandez

30

It’s been years since you put me in this hospital,

these four white walls caving in on me.

It’s been years that you’ve been medicating me

with anxiety and paranoia

while I laid there in silence,

unable to move and praying that you would make me feel better.

Because isn’t that what friends are for?

Excuse me as I mistook you for this, doctor,

someone I could look to when I don’t know what to do.

Someone who could help me patch this hole

that has been digging deeper and deeper into my gut

But I never noticed that you

were the one with the shovel.

When you said I could talk to you,

I believed you.

When you let me show you my coffin of problems,

my chest of anxieties,

the secrets that you watched me painfully yank out of myself,

I didn’t know that you would show everyone else.

And now you all stand over me

diagnosing me

telling me what is wrong with me.

But there is nothing wrong with me.

Hospital of LiesShannon Addonizio

31

Melancholia Kathleen Conlon

Maybe one day they’ll get it

When there’s no color left in my cheeks,

When they haven’t heard my voice in weeks.

Maybe they’ll get it when the shoes fit their feet

When they can’t sleep and hardly eat.

Maybe they’ll get it when their bones start to ache

And they can’t leave the bed or participate.

Maybe they’ll get it when that pain strikes their heart,

When their head spins and their world falls apart.

Maybe they’ll get it when the rains come down

And they search for an answer that could never be found.

Maybe they’ll get it when the doctor gives them a pill

That as many times as you refill,

The pain lingers still.

Maybe they’ll get it when the days feel blurry

And you try to take your time,

But they expect you to hurry.

Maybe one day they’ll know you tried,

That you did all you could,

But it wouldn’t subside.

I hope one day you’ll never have to get it,

Because to get it is to be indebted

To the monster that loves to dwell

In your own personal hell.

32

I sit and sob every night,

I remember sleeping in the camps with so much fright.

They shaved my head, changed numbers for name,

They were vicious animals that couldn’t be tamed.

I see my children every day,

I remember the “special target” game.

You run, they shoot, you see your sister fall,

But you can’t stop running if you want to stay alive at all.

I am now blessed with an abundance of food

But I remember seeing starving Jews.

On her death bed my mother said,

“I’ll rest in peace when the Fuhrer is dead.”

I go to my office all the time,

I remember back when I didn’t have a dime.

Begging in the streets and getting kicked in the face,

I really don’t think Jews are the inferior race.

I go outside in the cold of December,

I walk, I cry, I think, I remember;

I remember my mother, beautiful and sweet,

And I remember her as a dead heap.

Nazis shooting left and right,

I squeeze into spaces way too tight.

They want to kill me; they’re coming after you.

For just one reason, because you’re a Jew.

I Remember, You Should, Too

Sarah Yazdi

33

I am from roses

From mehndi and kohl

I am from the dandelion spotted garden

Serene, cloudy, scents of wet soil and mint

I am from mulberry trees

Bearing its sweet fruit under the scorching sun

I’m from ludo and cavities

From nano and thathaboo

I’m from the never-end dreams and tedious longing

From “sorry” and “goodbye”

I’m from old forts and broken walls

I’m from the Rajputs of Punjab

Jalebis, Black British blend chai

From the bent thumb and broken hip my father got from playing cricket

The book my mother wrote but never speaks about

In a cubby above our clothes are films and blurry photos

I am from these experiences, ancient traditions

Bobwhite quails, a duckling afraid to swim

Kites that fly, sparklers that ignite.

I’m from where the divide converges

And memories continue to live on.

Where I’m FromGulshan Ashaque

34

I. My Dog

Dog sleeps on the indented third cushion of the leather couch.

His eyes open when he hears a heavy step, or the refrigerator making ice.

I have seen what this house does to a being.

Yanked on a leash, tail between the legs— he is scared of cars, trees, winter air.

He doesn’t look to me for safety. Instead, he looks beyond, as he stands his ground

Firmly on the front steps, rarely past the welcome mat, unable to trust another.

In the shaking of his limbs, the timbre of his bark, he has inherited the house’s anxiety,

The house’s shifts in mood, the aggression.

I am the one who brought you here.

I pretend to have fallen asleep on the sofa when he lays by my side on the floor,

And the house is frustrated that he cannot understand our words,

That he will not walk into the deep night.

He is not us.

Can something bred to love become resentful?

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I whisper as I stroke him, half awake,

half hoping he feels my sentiment, half hoping he has no clue what I am talking about.

Things build up, as they often do, and explode.

II. My Age

I am nineteen today, mourning in place of celebration.

I lack the luster of a teenager on the cusp of adulthood;

The ease, the sense of purpose, the joy that sparks from being on your own,

Alive, and well, and ignorant, in the way that amuses.

I have aged myself twice over, grieving, full of a dread stuck to the bottom of my

stomach and at the end of my esophagus, that zaps the appetite yet gives me too much

to swallow.

On My MindJulia Andresakis

35

Anything can happen.

I am terrified, paralyzed. My head throbs if I think too long--

Am I stupid? When does the acceptance kick in and the despair dissipate,

Handing back my livelihood like an apology bouquet, with a card reading,

I am sorry for hurting you. You deserve someone better.

I’ve counted the number of times I wash my hands.

They are dry from the scrubbing but there always seems to be dirt under my nails.

III. My Path

She makes me laugh, I hope they say.

Curtains, a stage, a mic: a standard setup for the modern performer.

“Finally! You Will All Listen To Me!” I will shout into the microphone,

In a borrowed baritone voice.

I can tell you jokes, or, with enough practice, even sing you a song.

Juggling might take a few weeks, but I will do it if that is what you would like to see

me do.

I am your clown, remember.

I will not take money. How about devotion? Maybe thoughts - preferably good ones.

Can you make a promise to remember me?

I am naive, I suppose, to assume that I am the protagonist here.

Is there any point to treating each passing dream like a far-traveling quarter,

The kind that makes it to the top of the fountain?

Thoughts create currents; currents create whirlpools.

I can never seem to breathe deeply, lovingly, mindfully.

Do I spend too much time up in my own head? My skull collects dust.

IV. My Doubt

Is this poetry? I don’t think anything separates us.

Nothing is unique; you’ve lived these parts before and I’ve lived some of you.

Why am I so unhappy? I think too much.

Yes, I tend to ruminate.

King of kings? You’ll repeat, words spilling out as a scoff,

That can’t possibly work out, you’ll answer.

I hope the ground tremors when I speak,

36

Untethered benevolence,

“I Love You! And You! And You!”

I won’t really mean it, though, but it will make me feel better under the circumstances.

It is hard not to feel like a muted bird sometimes.

Sure, I still caw, I eat worms, but my feathers are dull;

Grayscale wings beat back against the yellow bodies of my comrades,

Who fly, and hunt, and build nests near other trees with their own nests,

Lineage traceable, generations passing before their beady eyes.

I am the last of my sort. Can I stay inside the hollow of a tree?

I am comfortable, I think, or horribly alone.

V. ???

I cannot control myself!

I cry when things go wrong.

Is this a kind of tragicomedy? A narcissist’s lament?

Hardly.

I am trying to process everything all at once.

How can I prevent what I am unsure is coming?

When does my instinct creep over into paranoia?

I think I have to stand with my shoulders back.

Eyes should be forward, looking ahead,

Arms should sway, slightly, with each step,

I must smile gently, somewhere between mopey and crazed;

normal things happen to normal people.

Was Superman mocked for being a fourth of his age, on a technicality?

That would be one commonality.

I often wake abruptly, unpleasantly.

I stare at the fleck of white paint on my ceiling.

What is today’s affliction?

What costume will I adorn?

Will I be the gentleman, the comedian, the bore?

I need more time to think.

37

Heaven is hopeless

And hidden from view

And I don’t know

How to help it

Because I’ve been a sinner

For as long as I’ve known

That lying

Tastes good on the tongue

I said I’d never repent

Because something in his touch

I can tell

Is worth being damned for

But his lips on mine

And soft sounds of

I love you

Remind me

There are some people

Worth saving

Kate Podias

So I’ll look to a god

That I’ve never believed in

And I’ll get down on my knees

And I’ll pray

Because divinity

Is when he graces my sheets

And holiness

Feels slow and sweet

I won’t drag him down

But don’t want to let go

So Lord, please,

I pray for forgiveness.

38

A tower that plunged us to oblivion.

Bump, Bump, Bumpin’ your ass off.

Astro Land, and the great Deno’s.

The crazy boardwalk at night.

where the wood slowly rotted,

and splintered our bare feet.

Suddenly a bike almost runs you over,

while two Luna-tic crackheads fight over a nugget,

and a nail nearly pierces your foot.

Margaritas on Margarita Monday,

And the sweet bitterness of her Smirn-off lips.

The radiance of flowers in her hair,

The delicate touch of her body against yours.

How she wistfully danced,

To the rhythm of eternal happiness.

Bliss.

I miss those days…

As we sit on the beaches of Coney Island,

And gaze towards the sweet ruby horizon,

The waves crash,

The seagulls soar,

And the stars glisten,

while the grainy ol’ sand,

That we all love, gets caught in our pants.

I remember my friends,

And how we used to do wild things.

We went hopping over gates,

And always got some candy from Philips.

“Warriors, come out to play!”

We all thought we were cool.

I miss those hotdogs from Nathan’s.

The greasy goodness of a frankfurter.

A refreshing ice-cold water, or Corona,

While we sat on the corners of Surf Avenue,

To admire the beautiful mermaids passing by.

A rollercoaster made of wood.

A Wheel as big as life itself.

“Coney Island, My First Love” Nolan Patrick Frontera

Coney Island,

It will be my first love,

Forever and always.

39

Beautiful Black Woman, See MeJerome Brown

Look at me

What do you see?

If you claim all lives matter and that allows you to sleep at night

You don’t see me

I am Sandra Bland...

Take a good look at me, now tell me what do you see?

If I can look after your kids but I can’t meet your mother

Do you see me?

Now look at me, just look at me

If you balance or lessen my beautiful black skin

by saying a smurf matters

You can’t see me

you don’t yet see yourself

Look at me, please look at me, what do you see?

If you see a woman that can’t get a man

My wife would disagree

But you don’t see me,

You see what you want to see.

Please just look at me,

If you brag about the nights we shared to assert your manhood

How can you see me as a woman?

You don’t know what it means to be a man.

Look at me, sister please, take a good look at me,

If you see a stuck-up bitch that ain’t about shit

You don’t yet see yourself,

I am your reflection beautiful and black.

Look at me, please take a good long look at me

If you see anything other than the beautiful black woman I am, you don’t see me

Now look at me, just look at me

I’m inviting you in, would you like to see me?

40

Surreptitiously walking down the alley-

Inhuming the remnants of the past I-

Longed to destroy-

Enchanted by the-

Nonchalant views of the-

Crows that undoubtedly should glare at me with judgment I-

Exhale.

Sit. Breathe. Replenish.

Put. all. thoughts. of. guilt. to. rest.

Exhale, ~do it now~

Alleviate yourself from the trouble you’ve caused

Know that malignant repetition never

Shows her face

Battle of WonMary Halabani

41

If you had to leave...

I just want you to know

that I’ll be thinking of you

as time goes by.

In my thoughts you’ll remain,

reign the shrine of my soul.

But when you leave,

my heart in which you lived,

mournful, will die.

Every Sunday, at noon,

as the day we first met,

if there’s any hope left,

I’ll be waiting for you.

And when destiny arrives,

I’ll just sit in a corner,

As I start to forget

all the enjoyments of life.

And the sun will collapse,

every Sunday at noon.

Brighter stars now are blurred.

No more bells to be tolled,

No more urge to be alive,

every Sunday at noon.

Noon Enrique Peña

42

My eyes are black holes ringed by

Complemented by

A pink accretion ring

My overrated potential abilities and my joy and my sometimes dreams move like cheap

firecrackers

I am so in love with them

I am so in love with my tears

“there has been a death” sobbing reminds me that perhaps my sense of grief is not totally

a stale performance

It is not totally the price for kind words

My forked tongue slips between my teeth to turn a calculated cacophony into honey along

my berry-boisterous lips

That I purse just so, just for anyone

Drops of this simple sugar sweetness dribble into my greedy palms for comfort and security

for remembrance and future spell casting

And these same outstretched hands retreat

Scalded and scolded by unconvincing proclamations of bright white self-love

The long nails of a horned beast poke holes into my arguments

My forked tongue spits into my mirrored face as I whisper with false sincerity,

That I am the most luminous star

I know I am a soiled girl.

You only gasp at stars at night when timing brings you together

No stale romantic searches for them in the day-time.

In the dark, I find you.

So, should I be the most luminous star, as you say, mirror woman

it will not stop me.

Nice Enough Girl and Her Cheap TearsSamantha Paucar

43

Cold. Listless. Movement impaired by movement implied.

White around, temporary, but beautiful.

The day was long. Long and red.

Conversations around the room. Whispers

everywhere about what? Something

round perhaps with frills. Something

like an apple. In the window there’s a bird.

Perhaps a hawk. Perhaps stalking prey.

Perhaps ruminating on the worm he had eaten over dinner with his

Aunt Josephine on the ornate kitchen banister.

Strange coat. Did they use an entire fox? Two foxes?

The fur around her hood like a game of who is richest.

My turn. Called in. Sit down and speak.

I spoke. I spoke beautifully. Loquaciously. Vociferously.

Not highfalutin, of course - that’s too much.

Shake hands. Shaken. Hands or mind? Definitely.

Take my jacket. Taken. Hat? Check!

It is quite peaceful outside. Very nice when

my cheeks start burning because the cold makes them hot.

Like the smart speech makes me feel stupid.

At least the white snow is just white and not

off white or grey or a shade. Until the cars drive by and

make it a shade. Like clockwork. Was white

now not.

SnowflakeEytan Galanter

44

I heard this poem onceIt started like this “If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around it hear it, does it make a sound?”

It ended like this“If a black body falls at the hands of a white cop does it make a differenceDoes it really matter, does it make a sound?”

When we were littleWe clothed our bodies in white coatsTelling ourselves “I’ll be a doctor”“Mama I’ll be a lawyer”“Mama I’ll be a teacherI’ll be a preacher or matta a fact mama I can be anything I want to be” (Laugh)

But it ain’t so easy, mama

You see people like us, people like me with my pigmentPeople with melanin coursing through their veins at every inch of their body, mamaPeople who don’t speak American as their first languageBut all get called MexicanJust cuz you speak Spanish you’re Mexican?

Mama, it ain’t so easy for usTo them we’re still sitting at the back of that damn busWe can’t be doctors, we can’t be presidentWe can’t be nothing but gangbangers in the streets or a maid folding the white peoples sheets

OH! Well, do we got them fooled.

Young black men graduatingWith the highest awards, go valedictorianYoung black women too, can’t forget about them

MamaNatoya Hutson

45

Go black man go be president, beautiful black womanGo be presidentLet your curls, twists, and bantu knots wrap around this nation, lift it up And discard all the evil and abominationDon’t let them knock you down…ButYou wanna hear the truth?

They don’t want to see you succeed,They throw obstacles in our way to disrupt our speedTo disrupt our black owned businesses and Latino owned officesTo stop the minority families from Economically, physically, and mentally growing,Probably even beyond them.

Mama, this is hardI thought we came here for better opportunitiesI thought we came here for “Indivisible, with liberty and justice for all” We came for “Land of the free, Home of the brave” but where is it

More like land of the Native Americans that we stand on every day,Home of the white and affluent who look down on us from day to day

“Speak American” they say“He had a gun” they say“A moment of silence” they say

“We’ve had enough” we say

Mama, I’m gonna prove them wrong, I’m gonna have their eyes wide openAs I shower myself with my Bachelor degree, my masters and my PhDLet them come to me so I can diagnose them and flex my medical degreeCuz it’s not gonna be like this for too long

We’re making our way up mama, and yes I can be what I wanna beBut thank god it’s not just handed down to meTime to change and work hard to become a better me.

46

I’m just like my mother. I sweep the floors in an effort to sweep you out of my life.

Bruised and battered knees, I scrub the floor profusely making sure to stay clear from the dark corners of my heart.

I hide you and the image of myself in the impeccable stack of dishes and silverware. Polishing away the secrets, keeping watchful eyes from intrusion.

I rummage through old clothes and unattended mail, ripping to shreds any and everything that smells like love; hungry, unrequited love.

I rearrange the furniture, fluff and prop the bedroom pillows, making sure to wipe down all the mirrors as my reflection whispers to me: “you’ve made a home out of this body.”

Cleanliness is next to Godliness. I hear my mother’s voice, I look down at my feet that are anchored and shackled in love, and then at my eyes soft and tired. They are not my own, they belong to my mother.

I light a candle, sit on the floor, heart rending and soulful, I let the lyrics of Corinne Bailey Rae wash over me like the rising and falling tides of the sea.

I’ve tried to remove you like the dirt stain from my subconscious that won’t let go. I’m just like my mother.

I’m Just Like My MotherAshlee Mellowes

47

homeOriya Abed

home?

a place i call home is a place i’ve never set foot in. it is one that i’m asked about constantly, however, one i cannot provide an answer for. a place so rich with people, with culture, and with history; i doubt i’ll ever get to grasp it all. my dream is to visit home, yet fearful i am to go. i’m haunted by thoughts, by questions: “will i ever get to visit my home?” “is it even my home?” day and night, i’m haunted. a place i call home is a place that’s welcomed others before it has welcomed me.

48

the new you is me, dancing in blue jeans,

hips swaying from side-to-side, stereo’d lips

tongued-down for a touch only i can give.

i’m beside myself, all by myself, but

i don’t mind. oh me oh my, this poem’s the

musk risen from 501s, the pelvic

breeze blown by all the curves you can’t feel. this,

a call back to body, reclaiming mine

down to the dew, an orgasmic crash of

self into self into song, & as

i sing, as i sweat, i swing a name draped

in sunset, shoulders slouched toward the shift—

believe me, i’m happy here, so leave me

to groove out of the blue, out of the blue.

out of

the blueQuentin

Felton

49

Infinite Blue~Alana Silberg

Blue is a hue~

That bewitches the mind

Resisting identification

Shifting from present day to ancient times

Held in high esteem, the color of the infinite sky, scattered powder puffs,

motionless, above in the heavens

Spiritual, sensuous, warm, dimensionless

Greek divinity

The mother of the trinity

Holy femininity

All wrapped in crushed blue velvet

Beloved universally, the color of the limitless belongs to boys in modernity

Synthetic pigments highlighting man’s power, imperial status and nobility

But aesthetic creations cannot be bound by one single interpretation

Blue is the turbulent crashing sea of Moby Dick, and the placid, pale waters of

a babbling brook

Blue is Picasso’s grief

Blue is weakness

Blue is strength

Blue beckons man into the infinite

50

And let out groans when they are pulled away from you.

Only once in a while are you shown appreciation,

When you are sprinkled with cozy chemicals

That awaken the shine that was taken away from you.

But it won’t last for too long

Because soon the four wooden pillars that bear your very being

Will become too weak and give out.

Soon your shine will go into an everlasting slumber,

And you will realize;

All the burns you swallowed,

All the wine spills you endured,

All the laughter they shared with you,

And all the memories they made with you

Shaped your very being

But meant nothing to them.

Because you are just a kitchen table,

Taking on as many plates as they want you to handle, but never thinking of yourself.

Standing here, beside you,

Pain strikes my heart

And sorrow fills my soul

As I sympathize for all you have been through.

You have the anatomy of an empty grave slot

Waiting for a coffin to fulfill its void for all eternity.

But for you,

Your void remains as vacant as the bellies

That sit beside you when they are crying in hunger.

Just as their crying bellies,

Your emptiness is only fulfilled temporarily.

Some days, they dress you

In daisy-woven and sunlight stained fabrics

To hide the cavernous scars

That they brought upon you.

On other days, they leave you naked.

Forcing you to hold their shallow porcelain disks

With burning bottoms

Along with their heavy goblets

With forceful aromas,

Never thinking about the burns or bruises these deeds bring to your bare skin.

The four-legged sculptures that press against you

Disrespect the rules of personal space

The Kitchen TableSamantha Merzel

51

We, endowed in His image, the Maker’s Mark,

I’m wowed by that name in the form of liquor.

Shame as the bottle beckons, icy as Stark

Bottle by the fire, my mind inured.

The glass drains, my colour flushes

Thoughts amass as my veins throb,

In vain I see my blood like the Nile rushes

I’m a prisoner to my thoughts, there is no knob.

O Lord, I have distraught and wronged!

Sought to repent; my sins would not relent -

Hot fires my end, if for you I hadn’t longed

Your mirror image, I embed dent after dent.

My myriad imperfections, how am I my Maker’s Mark,

When in your garden I’m an intoxicated meadowlark?

Maker’s MarkDaniel Edelstein

52

GreyJoseph Austin

I am drunk off of the miseryActively seeking no solution

Despite how dizzy I amEach and every day

I can feel it closing inMy vision turns grey

And it narrowsEverything gets so tight

I can barely see in front of meAs street lights flare in the night

This choking feelingCan’t inhale or exhale

I have become stoneHeart beating but dead as a doornail

In a box of nails but still aloneNails claw against skin

Only a scraping sensationGiving form to what is blankI feel I’m about to disappear

But clawing at my skinMaintains my form and keeps me here

I am drunk off this feelingAnd no one knows within my sphere

When I draw a blank and go grey

No one who knows is hereBecause no one will knowI take solace in drowningThe blank void weighs me downThe gravity of my feelingsHas long since split my crownI can’t remember the time or dayI became locked in my afternoonMy mouth doesn’t make a soundAnd my vision goes greyI am drunk off the miseryIt defines my normalityThe feeling of being dizzyI wander in my realityThe weight piles on like snowCrushed but still aware and hearingAs my limbs go numb from the coldWhen loved ones scream around youYour own will can be lost in the deafening echoMy limbs lack feelingBut they are unable to betrayI am drunk off the miseryWhen the grey snaps to colored realityColor is more colorless than grey

53

untitledEmma Bean Simmons

I am a honeycomb scrapbook of your touch;

each you have drawn across my skin remains

like a burn on my muscles and around my bones.

since the first time I rested my hand on your chest

I have held the heat of your body

between my fingers and under my nails.

winter to winter it has not cooled.

54

The Earth lived before you

She will live after you

Vast and varied

Wide and beyond you

She doesn’t love you

There’s far too many of you to love

Perhaps once she could have

Perhaps once she did

But how can she,

When you cut down her forests

And carve up her skin

When you melt her icy ends

And leave her to suffocate

When you dirty her waters

And kill the life she holds on her back

When you warm the air

And make it far too hot to breathe

But oceans rise and fall

The land always shifting

Things break and reform

You won’t always be here

You were not the first

You will not be the last

And when you are cradled beneath her skin

She’ll have her vengeance at last

The Earth Doesn’t Love You

Fatema Islam

55

Just as the moon gets drowned into the clouds -

all consumed yet shining bright

His eyes clouded over as he sang the tunes of his song

His tune rang bells in temples and clocks

His voice moved my soul, like the wind does to the sea

Creating waves of emotion that flow

through my existence

Flow Through My Existence

Maryam Ahmad

56

I was born amidst a storm

Awake and loud, a part of the world’s festival.

My grandma cried—Not a boy?

My mother prayed, God is great!

Relatives smirked, she is so dark.

It was my father who held me first

To welcome me to the world,

To give me a name that meant patience—

“In this unjust world, may you be the earth,

Kind, patient, and loving all the same.”

And since then, I’ve been patience, I’ve been the earth.

I Am Patience, I Am Earth

Mrittika Deb

57

Essence of it all stems

Rather, kindles

From a thin wisp

Only ignited by a thin scrape and snap

An element that makes all wary to dance around its tiny path

Understanding the vacancy of control

You cannot tame wild fire.

You cannot tame life.

A simple flame we dance around

A little thing with no control

Ignited by only One

Kindled

By a thin wisp of G-d

Festival of lifeBiseyata Deshmya

58

When they first tell you are made

of two antithetical halves,

The Black, and The White,

it’s something reminiscent of an

impact,

sledgehammers pummeling blankets;

Distant. Detached.

I am of two minds,

like a brain separated

by carefully fired bullets.

The In-Between is

The Land of Make Believe,

a mythical place these thoughts

may never enter.

I am the Riot.

I am the Stillness.

I am Euphoria

I am Misery.

Here there is Fire, or Ice, and nothing else

They tell you will break relationships,

hearts and promises.

Bisection of Borderline Personality Disorder

Mark D. Morales

And though you may rage against

this diagnosis of diminishment,

in time you will see they were right.

Ruinous emotions scour away

at the real and rational,

a joy too abundant,

an anger too vehement,

and at the border of the black and white

you see there is no grey, no home

for compromise

and the prevailing of cooler heads

A fearful, wondrous landscape

that subdues

and liberates.

These are things they tell you.

So as you scream your fury at lovers and loved ones

Remind them how much you adore them,

and never want them want to leave.

59

Rigorously running with reasonable repercussion.

Wandering wildly, wondering widely, and without wise withholding.

Treacherous and tediously tied to terrible torment.

Forever fearfully fondling feverishly frequent facades.

Carefully considering constant credentials conspiring for change.

Delusional distance dictating didactic dares despite deadly deeds.

Every ear eagerly excited, existing endlessly, engulfed in egotistical

endeavors eluding eerie endless exits.

Undesirably understanding upholding unleashed uselessness.

Abroad aimless aspirations acquired around apprehensive ambivalence.

Senselessly seeking surreal solicitation surrounding softly sunken

sounds amid sulking scenes.

Wall StreetLauren Brendle

60

Adjective upward comes to mind

Moving toward somewhere better

Pushing away from the ephemeral

Situating in the stock-still happiness of

Two hands, clasped

Glances across kitchen tables

Looking two steps ahead and minding the rest

In a dream I fall backwards on the pavement

And the arms that catch me are struggling

They’re shaking at first and then suddenly go

flaccid

Dropped

I am making waves on the sidewalk

Like a stone in stagnant water

I don’t wake up but instead

I continue to sink

Drowning in solid matter

When I finally pull my body out

I awaken to find you aren’t there

I roll across to Your Side of the Bed

Where your body laid

Where I counted your breaths once

Watching your chest rise and fall

Lofty mountains and summits

A landscape of life, mapped from my mattress

A Note on Motion (Or, Where I Seem to be Falling)

Doria Wohler

61

I lay here

And I pray to an ever elusive God

To leave my sleep to myself

Today I ran cross-town

Downtown

Cross-bridge

Cross-borough

I found myself in a place I once lived

Off an avenue I used to walk

It smelled like them

Those people I used to know

It felt like then

A liminality I used to occupy

And so I turned on my heels

And sprinted westward

Traversing through crosswalks

Running until my legs trembled

Until I reached the water.

I threw a rock out across the brackish tumult

Murky grey beaten against man-made barriers

I threw a rock

And then another

And another

I looked up towards the sun

And out across the horizon

I threw a rock in the water

And it skipped once and then twice

Before diving into the waves

Leaving ripples as it sank

62

I remember how you looked

The memories don’t fade

You brought me a lot of happiness

Because of the stories I made

I saw myself grow up there

And I made many friends

You brought me a lot of joy

Even though it came to an end

To my memory

You are my childhood home

The street I grew up on

The street I would roam

But you’ve changed

And in my memory you are no longer

the same

I am disappointed

And they are to blame

WilsonJessica Deleon

They changed you up

Destroyed parts of you

Where are the details

That made you, you?

You were once unique

But now you are not

You no longer bring me happiness

Nor the memories you once brought

63

My dreams consist

of floating in the Adriatic Sea,

hearing my name whispered

through the waves.

They are telling me

I’m on my path

and I am okay.

Fig trees hang over the cliff

as if reaching for me,

asking for my hand

to give its fruit.

Two sparrows

above, like arrows shooting

into one another,

I hope they are for love.

There is nectar in the

air,

I come here

every day.

ExodusArdijana Kukic

64

I am an ocean

And your downpour of tears

Overwhelm my tide.

With a single plea;

I shield you from the storm you’ve brewed.

My senses amplified by the crystallized rain

Pelting my skin.

When you hold me in your hands,

My sheer form slips through

The gaps between your fingers

Leaving only the speckled dew on your palms.

For you,

My rippled waters are enough to lull your panic.

But I

Long for the day I’ll be still.

Today I can only

Await the moment

You’ll desiccate

my empathetic heart

And all of me

Will be yours.

For youDanny Lowe

65

Long way away

Into the land unknown,

I’ve come to see the truths unfold;

The life among,

The culture within,

The clash of religions,

And the people in between.

In a precarious position,

There stands a land

So desired in the belief that

It is the root, where it all began.

Everywhere you go,

So beautiful and fantastic

Were the creations with their formations

Over the duration of my exploration

I lived as though

I was at home.

Truth be told,

I fell in love

With what this land can offer us all.

And now I know

Having been through it all

That it truly is the holy land.

Discovering The Holy LandAkmal Salim

66

As snow does to fire

through splendid cities,

flowers of ink

pour burning love

onto each skull.

Overcast accrued,

a rotten flower resists

from the sadism of

abstract thought

that plagues the mind.

Its emotions dwindling

with the reality that earthlings

cannot simply pick them up

for sympathy but rather look

upon with sorrow.

The flower of this nation’s

youth should compel that

people cannot accept a rotten

flower as its dependent but rather

as its way of maturity.

We the people shouldn’t bow

down to any complicated sentiment

because if we all stand together as one,

then we can modify this rotten flower

into a prospering rose.

The Flower’s Dream Anthony Sepulveda

67

El Sueño de la FlorAnthony Sepulveda

Como la nieve hace para disparar

a través de espléndidas ciudades

flores de tinta

vierte amor ardiente

en cada cráneo.

Nublado acumulado,

una flor podrida se resiste

del sadismo de

pensamiento abstracto

que plaga la mente

Son las emociones disminuyendo

con la realidad de que los terrícolas

no puedo simplemente recogerlos

por simpatía, sino mirar

sobre con tristeza

La flor de esta nación

la juventud debe obligar a que

la gente no puede aceptar un podrido

flor como su dependiente, sino más bien

como su camino de madurez

Nosotros, las personas, no debemos inclinarnos

a cualquier sentimiento complicado

porque si todos nos unimos como uno,

entonces podemos modificar esta flor podrida

en una rosa próspera.

68

I met an angel once

She walked as if her body didn’t exist

Rising with the wind

Transcendental

No bones to weigh her down

For she was an angel

And she was beautiful

I met an angel once

Her hands were soft and smooth

Like a rock that had been beaten by the

ocean for centuries

Her fingers were delicate and long

Her touch was heavenly

And she was beautiful

I met an angel once

Who radiated warmth

Golden and vibrant

Distracting from the darkness behind

her eyes

With her sun kissed skin

And I thought she was beautiful

I met an angel once

Who had javelin teeth

Nestled between pink gums

Wide and gray was her smile

And they said she was beautiful

I Met an Angel OnceLiz Larson

I met an angel once

Her nails were barbed

And caught my arm in their thorny grasp

Cutting through my dry skin like

unsharpened razor blades

I painted her nails

Translucent and gray veins

Wrapped around her elegant fingers

A makeshift ring

And they said she was beautiful

I met an angel once

And they said she was beautiful

But her high-pitched voice screamed in

my ear

And her emancipated fingers clawed at

my skin

Palatable malevolence glowed around her

sockets

She hated me

But she was still beautiful

And still an angel

I met an angel once

Who tore me limb from limb

And made a game out of my ripped

ligaments

And cracked personality

I met an angel who smiled at the world

passing by

But all I could see was myself in her teeth

69

Frustration seeping

Trickled beyond

Simple nail digging marked palms

Until it’s crawling into those untouched parts of life

And you are running into those walls

You never managed to knock down

You are scrambling

But you are so used to scrambling

To bottle up what you never realized you ever had bottled up

To watch a mess unfold

Beyond the brain

Pouring now

Sitting with your hands tied and locked

As puddles become oceans

When they whispered “suppression is not healthy”

You tuned them out, believing with all of your shaking being

That all that was being suppressed had to be worse

Drowning in your own man made ocean

Rusty locks and chains

It’s harder to swim now

But swim now

While all that is left refuses to be tied down

SuppressionNatalie Mosseri

70

I.

I scooted so that you could have

Space.

If you don’t want it, can I have it back?

II.

Near death experience today.

Didn’t ~stand clear of the closing doors~

They’re stronger than I expected.

III.

There is a man manspreading next to me.

I am aggressively I-have-a-violin-case-

between-my-legs-spreading back at him.

I shoot a look of disbelief and rage at the

manspreader, and earn a smile from some

rando.

I don’t smile back.

IV.

I am sorry

that I hit you

with my violin case.

It’s not my fault

that when I passed by

you chose to stick out your face.

PoetrainGrace Paré

Please have pity,

do not shout

or stoop to measures so base,

you are right

mea culpa

I’m a clutzy disgrace.

V.

“Train traffic ahead…

Train traffic ahead

Hello ladies and gentlemen,

There’s a Q train stuck around the bend,

Hold on tight, it’ll be some time

There’s no way around on this crappy line.

It’s all the train dispatcher’s fault, she’s

been a mess lately

Thank you for your patience.”

That train dispatcher!

If I ever catch her,

I’ll dispatch her.

VI.

Well hello throw-up on the tiles.

How’d you get out here in the wild?

And how did you get to be

Yellow and brown and somehow green?

Did you explode in some drunken frolic

Out of the mouth of an alcoholic?

Or were you cast out from the throat

Of someone unfortunate struck with bloat?

71

VII.

I see a hot train guy.

He sees me.

Am I a hot train girl?

Will he write a poem about me?

No.

He looks like a finance bro.

At least this is what I say to comfort

myself when he gets off at

~Eastern Parkway/Brooklyn Museum~

VIII.

“What’s up ladies and gentlemen?

It’s Showtime now on this express N

Give your attention to my boy Ben

Anyone gonna shell out a ten?”

They’re doing the hat tricks again

I’m nervous watching his boy Ben

He drops it twice before the end

Couldn’t keep his balance on the bend

IX.

Please do not eat your

Food smelling so delicious

When I’m so hungry.

X.

My mouth is a

hair’s breadth from your hand,

my breath’s on your hand,

if I yawn I’ll bite your hand,

Stranger.

Uncomfortable intimacy--

I can see your too-short nails,

blue veins protruding from

gripping the pole

Tightly.

The universe

and the crowds

have brought us

together, forced us into

Closeness.

72

This was kind of last minute

Like most poems are

Written in the crevices of your hands

As you wash off the dirt

In the caverns of your mind

Just before you say the words:

“I love you.”

Last MinuteBethany Friedmann

73

I hurt myself on purpose today

I cut myself deep with the words you’d say

I slowly open the wounds that I thought were closed

Bleed out everything with all my force

Trying to relive what I thought would last

Destroyed me much more than trying to live in the past

Thinking with each day I’d finally get over you

Was so much a lie I thought it was true

I’m living each day with so much hurt and pain

That if we were to be together it’d drive me insane

With me finally admitting that I’ll never be over us

Makes me question was itx not love and just lust

I hurt myself on purpose today

Hoping this time the feelings for you would finally go away

Hurt SelfShavi Douglas

74

Ophelia’s BouquetAsia Acevedo

You plucked me at peak ripeness,before the insects could siphon me dry;

but the pain of the aphids frantically prying into mepales in comparison to being ripped from the earth

by your selfish handsas you made room for yourself

in the soil and water I loved.

Clutched in palms damp with determination,I watched you snatch more innocentsfrom the garden sowed to withstandsins more wicked than the betrayal

you harvest in your heart.

You hope the color of our petalswill brighten your sallow complexionwhile your waterlogged pores replace

any remnants of rosy, tear stained cheeks.

When they find youmouth agape, lips chapped,eyes emptied,

they will not commend your effortto beautify your selfish end,

but instead wonder why you felt so compelled

to kill the beauty around you too.

75

When the skies turn grey and days grow short.The nights are longer and wind howls.Apple crisps and cinnamon fills the air.

Trees shedding their springtime bliss.The leaves crunching underneath your shoes.Brisk air caressing the nape of your neck.

A sniffle for every breath and a tear out of each eye,Mascara stains your cheeks.Your hand rummages in your purse,Crumbs of tissues fall out.

After one last hug goodbye,Summer has finally made her exit.

Summer’s InterludeJessica Drigun-Lara

76

Who Am I? I Am A Woman of ColorShadae Brown

Who am I?

I am strong, I am brave I am the bravest person you’ll ever meet I will protest injustices and lead marches until my feet bleed I will stand up to the white man, to the system, even if it kills me I am Rev. Dr. Pauli Murray And I am legendary I am the cornerstone of the Brown vs Board of Education of Topeka. A black lioness, a black panther, a black cheetah.A God-sent revolutionary thinker I used my platform, I used my voiceActivism came to me, I had no choice Because I am a Woman of Color

Who am I?

Oh you’ve heard of me That white man came, he stood there and looked Told me I should get up, fall in line, play by the book But I would not move. No I would not budge. Today is the day I fight back enough is enoughThey said know your place, Niggers should sit at the back But who are they to tell me what to do just because I am black I know who I am, I know my place I am Rosa Louise McCauley ParksAnd my place is in the History booksBecause I am a powerful Black woman

Who am I?

77

I take a knee, to take a stand, but you can’t understand that my stand is not against the anthemIt is a protest, about injusticeThe injustice faced by minorities, under the hand of the privilegedSo you, the privileged, can look down on meFrown on me, call the police and act like the fault is all on me.Don’t bring politics to work, politics is workThe blood, the sweat, the tears, through the yearsIt was legal to own someone like meTo rape, to beat, to kill someone like me. But you want to Wakanda forever and “hey aunty”Sing kumbaya and not see race, because the injustice that we face, is not your own

There is no excuse you are grown, so how can you not see color? How can you look in my faceand tell me black lives don’t matter.The only thing you gave us was that white washed lord, claiming we are playing the race card,when our men are locked up behind bars, and a white man runs the ward.This is modern-day slavery, scratch that this is slavery. Because it didn’t end it metamorphosed,into this society where we cannot resist, where we cannot assist, our brothers and sisters beingkilled by the police, the cemeteries being filled by black bodies, but I will be loud until theycome for me. I will kneel ‘till my knees bleed, ‘till the streets are repainted with my blood, ‘till the governmenthas had enough, ‘till education is not corrupt, ‘till these organizations go bankrupt.Oh black people don’t have power, well this is the real-world Black Panther and we won’t give up we won’t surrender. So let us kneel.Who am I? I am Shadae Brown a woman of color.

78

We see them moving

Navigating life with a drive

That comes from

Holding hands with satisfaction

Willing to achieve at

The cost of sacrifice--

And then,

There are the ones who are content to

wander

Aimlessly

Rowing across the puddles

And skipping across the continents

And they are in love with life--

Here I sit

Aimlessly

Best friends with dissatisfaction

With my eyes cast to the ends

And my knees struggling to support my

stomach

In swallowing my allotted life

For I am in love and bitterly disappointed

that

This is

It.

12.10.2017Denise Davis

That I get only one life to experience

That I cannot open my fingers and drink the

oceans

(That my perspective is limited

To my eyes alone)

For I do not know how to live

I have not captured this

Balancing movement of existence

My fingertips remain outstretched

Trying to feel the breath of the ocean

To learn how to feel the entire world

To be and have been

To continue on

I search for this

Failing

For

At the soul of my souls

I am lost

79

overly loved Sebastian Dejean

too much love makes me sick

so don’t overflow your passion on me as a way of getting my attention.

terms of endearment always putting forward compliments

reminding me of all the uneasiness i’ve encountered in the name of tenderness.

this is all you unabashedly owning your truth

while finding this extremely courageous my heart’s screams remain blindly dangerous

i speak, you listen but my words stay within your oblivion

maybe that’s why you so gladly execute these motions for your past does not sting in between recollections.

80

The Dangers of NostalgiaMerna Ibrahim

It’ll hypnotize, stealing you from reality

Grabbing you by the arm to take a walk on a rainy day

Asking you to step outside, “but it’s getting dark”

Persuading you, “it’ll only be a minute”

“I don’t want to remember the things I haven’t thought about for a while”

It’s like landing on another planet but everything is familiar

Leaving to return once again

Recognizing everything but refusing to say hello

Making eye contact only to look away

It’s a cup of coffee to keep you up at night

Creeping into your dreams to shake you awake

Whispering softly, breathing down your neck

It’s the box of things you keep under your bed refusing to open

Hidden away from eyes that water

It’s an overflowing storage room of memories you keep locked away

An ocean you’d rather not swim in

Diving too deep, drowning in nothing

Reviving yourself to dip your toes in once again

It’s a train stopping at destinations that seem obscure

A blurry vision that is all too clear

It’s flowers that don’t get watered because it’s better if they wilt.

81

The green container of food empties itself into my stomach,

minutes passing way too soon until it reaches 11 pm.

The green envy in my heart pumps into my veins, mixing with the blood and coagulating where I bleed heartbreak.

My brain swam after I red the text

and I’m still trying not to drown in my soup.

Past and present mold one another, and I cry for the cheap ceramic years.

I redden my cheeks as I text back, knowing I’m encouraging the fight.

But it is also her choice, if she does not freeze in the backyard of her mind.

Blue lips and a dead phone… it all scares the fuck out of me.

And this is a common occurrence.

She blue me off in the last text, because I didn’t blow up first.

It makes no sense to me. I continue eating my fill.

Purple rain, acidic tranquility and the only weather that can kill this mood.

I miss her and the week hasn’t passed, nor the day, nor the hour.

Purple prose flees my fingers but it is only running away from the white whispers in my head.

The lies of my dreams, the exodus of rationality.

The white cannellini beans slosh around the soup, fat pillows adorning a bed.

I try not to drown, I try not to fall asleep.

Orange flavored seltzer washes down the pill, because I have trouble swallowing them on my own. It is not enough for transparent yellow D3 gel pills to be in my daily diet, metallic-tasting truths must be fed to me as well. My brain still swims, and the paint slides vertically down the canvas, down my throat, choking me to tears. The wetness wakes me from my reverie and I stop thinking about her. My dinner is long gone, but I still sit alone in the dining room, dissociating from reality. When I come back, I accept my plate and all thoughts muddle, and all shivers return.

And all the colors fade to grey and turn bleak, and as my favorite of all materializes, it mirrors the future.

Purple ProseMic Braun

82

mean girls being V sloppy with their hormones always doing the talking. i’m only mean cause iwannabe & the desert is a lonely dry place to live in. there’s a wet lizard that won’t stop talking about profound taxes & the other business deals. i almost bought another pair of casual kakis but they’re not PINK—what’s playing on the TV? if you think before you drip shop you might end up being happy—but i don’t think i’ve ever had to pay for things. i’m V good at giving knowledge; i almost didn’t go to college. a cool girl on the subway taught me the secret matrix for mixing language & sound & NOW i whiskey-whistle out the cadences just to hear them when i’m down.

the boys really like me; i think i’ve made some friends; their party seems to never end; US mean girls can recommend.........a way to live: it’s not the best but it’ll get you through. my mother taught me adaptation for the survival game; i like WINNING too! first learn to love the small changes & collect them like a hungry bank. one night, you might have enough fuel to burn away all the cracking skin—call me then. i heard there’s a whole city for the lost moths & they don’t even have to pay rent; not a single cent! we have no past, only plans. i have new thick skin & a real husband. now about those bones; you can always still feel it in the old bones.

the virgin suicideToni Coleman

83

No wonder my body doesn’t let me sleep

It’s those damn dreams I keep having

The fake realities.

Everything I’ve ever wanted

Just for me to wake up

And watch it all vanish

As my eyes slowly open

And the dream starts to get cut off

And blur out the picture

Little by little

Until it’s all gone.

So the next night

Body exhausted, eyes burning, mind overwhelmed with thoughts

My body resists the urge to sleep

It doesn’t want to see you again.

InsomniacRiana Kolari

84

I’ve been having weird dreams latelyBut not in my sleepWaking dreams within this endless nightmare of a worldWhy do I dream

I dream for many thingsLove, acceptance, blissI can never attain these Why do I dream

The world is a cruel dark place I want to make it a bit lighterMy struggling ember is dashed by the cold harsh waves of realityWhy do I dream

If all I could ever be is someone who tries Why even tryRealism is not pessimism, and so thoughts of happiness exist but are quickly snuffed outWhy do I dream

There is no safe place There is no hideawayAnger and hatred, bitterness and despair, will always consume allWhy do I dream

Ask not what the world can do for you, rather ask how quickly you can escape from the ragged chains of this mortal coilDream of a place far from this void of hopelessnessDream of eternal rest

It will never come.

Why do I dream?

Why Do I Dream?

Avery Lieberman

85

the crippling thought of making an error

courses through my mind constantly

speak little to no words

saying nothing inflicts no harm

i’ve made no mistakes

yet the words slip from my mouth

i’ve caused a problem somehow

this fault was started because of me

it’s always because of me

i’m sorrybrie rose

86

New York is a playground

For those whose skin flushes bright red,

Whose tongues like spoons

Follow their parents steps

New York is a haven

For those who were born in clouds,

In Zeus’ lap,

Sons and daughters of horses and man

And Hades was born

In a low-grade hospital in Brooklyn,

He swims in his small pit,

Where he hears voices of those who’ve fallen

With the little he has, he tries,

To put the meat in Cerberus’ bowl

New York in OlympiaNat Eliza

87

Missing I. Ash

7:40

Do you ever text someone and they don’t respond immediately?

So your mind whirls a million thoughts per minute Like, Do you ever miss someone so much that you are fighting tears standing in a huge crowd? Because the warmth of the one hug you’re craving can’t be felt anywhere and instead the world’s chill is seeping in. Do you ever wish so hard that circumstances could’ve been slightly different in the past? As if had you said one different word or given one extra smile it would’ve been a whole different world today. They wouldn’t have gotten so far away so quickly. And I know we all must grow, And move forward and onward, And that things won’t always be the same. But if I could’ve changed one thing to still see them as often as I used to, I would do it without even blinking. But I mean it’s life, don’t dwell on the feelings

and just push forward, right?

No use in being down about things that can’t change.

7:45 ... Here comes a reply to the text and

All the swirling pitying thoughts slow to a stop.

The smile is back, and the world is bright again because you realize

they’re only a couple of taps away.

88

OculusLily

L

o

w

e

r

your eyes and

C

o

v

e

r

your face with your veil

Your woes; at the door.

89

It’s swing.

An odd time signature, the same when I ate

The ash from your lungs, making love on

The cover of the trashed paperback.

Rotting consequences ripped open, bleeding

The sorrow, secreting the truth out of me.

There’s a war going on – We never won it.

We were one, aiming at heights.

Odd time signature again.

5/3, 3/7, 7/8, 2/6.

It’s swing.

Life is not a merry-go-round.

In case you were following the rhythm

Of our bodies in this meter.

Where is the intimate proposals

And imminent divorces?

No winners, no losers.

No reason to gain the upper hand or know

What comes out of this.

No destinations, distinctions, nor titles

No way to bloom inside our youth’s womb.

Yeah, it’s swing.

We were told – lied to – we were always 4/4.

It’s a tradition, it’s the way our fathers tell it.

Like our song we croon to.

1969Romel Martinez

90

For Brooks

Those Midnight Boys roll down Brooklyn

in the dance of smooth chords and thin gin.

In Bay Ridge, our seven plant bullets in

the soil of graffiti bricks. They’ve been

lurking to the tune of Shakur and own sin.

Those Midnight Boys are rolling down Brooklyn.

They’re real cool, you know? Their art of snatching

prey from unpaved streets. Cruising stolen skin

to Prospect, where our seven plant jazz in.

Mornings, boys leave high-school during

recess. Gathering at the Shovel, our pool players begin

striking matches and plans to roll down Brooklyn.

It’s dead late soon. Our seven boys filling the air in

straight methane, begin to lose their grins.

On the highway, our seven plant their blood in.

In June, the pallbearers carried seven coffins

into ground to the song of organs and tearing kin.

At Bay Ridge, our seven planted bullets in.

Now, our Midnight Boys roll down in Brooklyn.

Street UniformAnes/N.S. Ahmed

91

When I think of leaving,

ED,

I think of darkness, shadows

Everything in between

With nothing less peering through my bones

I think about how you kept my secrets

Pushed me to do my best

You taught me how not to act in a moronic way

I think about my life and how much would have changed

How lonely I would feel

So scared of the darkness peering in

I think I am ready to let go

Of how tight

you make me hold you,

ED,

But at the same time

I know we have to say

Goodbye

And yet I don’t want to

I’m scared

The only thing that makes sense to me,

ED,

Is that

You are what makes me real

And as much as

We need to say

Goodbye

I just Can’t

Yet

Goodbye my lonelyDiana Harman

92

We, as people, want a lot from life, though we don’t exactly deserve it.We want our feelings to be reciprocated,We want it to be true that if someone we love dies, they’re still with us no matter what.We want to believe that we are good people, and that we love everyone the same.But do we? Can we really sit here and say that all the love we give is real? Genuine?If you say yes, you’re a liar.Now watch how easily you get called out on it.

Jewish tradition states that one is considered a mourner when one of eight people dies: father, mother, sister, brother, husband, wife, son, or daughter.This is accurate, no? Seemingly relatable, but if you were once like me this does not take into consideration the far-fetched relationships we give away to those we assume we have attachment with.You believe that you love everyone who falls within those bondsBut if your mother were to die todayYou’d beg for someone else to be taken away.

Love can cause so much more than Happiness.Pain, Grief, Loss, Confusion etc.They all become factors on how you retaliate in life if you do lose love.You begin to make mistakes. Cheating, Lying, Self-Harm mentally etc. You never really become okay, You just find ways to make the pain temporarily go away You never really stop loving someone, you just find someone you love more

Healing Isn’t RealJanikaa Jackson

93

Can you sing to me

The one about not letting go,

making promises,reliving through photos.

Let me get comfortable,

I want to close my eyes first.

Ok,now start

Wait,

I’ve never heard this one before.But it’s nice.

Can I tell you something,because it’s easier

when I can’t see you

It hurts to say that, but It’s ok

I know you feel the same

Let me just lay here,a little bit longer

so you can sing to me.

One last time.

LullabyeVicky Lee

94

As I clean the lipstick stain

Off my overly used wine glass

I stare at my blank crème wall

In hopes it speaks back to me

As bare as it is

I have a better chance of speaking to

A slate of cement block

Than an actual human being

Distracted as I am

I can’t ignore the instantaneous

Shatter of glass

As it makes contact with the cold tiles

I realize something tragic

I was looking at myself the whole time

There on the frigid surface

Broken

Damaged

Impossible to glue back together

But throughout the spread of glass shards

I recognized the cause and effect

And I made a vow

To myself and my sanity

To not let anyone be distracted

Negligent

Careless

Like I was with this wine glass

Because this glass and I might be similar

But the only difference is

I am irreplaceable.

GlassLatife Lita

95

As I stare into the sun, my mind melts.

Now I’m on the floor as a puddle, floating in my feelings and surviving across their waves.

It is so placid...so calming.

This crevasse of my mind radiates my metaphoric skin.

I rest in an envelope of pleasant dreams and childhood memories, floating over the sea that is my thoughts.

Then I realize.

My mind isn’t dense— its waters are incredibly deep.

And suddenly I’m drowning, swallowed and encompassed by my own ferocious fears.

They yank at my toes, pull me down under.

And before I know it, I am succumb to darkness.

I fail to recognize my own mind.

It frightens me that it is no longer mine.

UnderIlana Iskhakova

96

I waited for you

In the place where safety enveloped

Where hope and tranquility developed

Where we found a home in each other’s arms

I waited for you

In the place where secrets unfolded

Hearts were molded

Into codependent beings

I waited for you

In the place where memories were choking

Minds no longer evoking

And faith killed us

I waited for you

And as time grew slower my heart grew more rapid

I waited in the place that saw us

live and breathe

Connect and love

Rise and fall

I waited for you

But you never came

The StairsCamila Dejesus

97

Another Tell-Tale StoryLia Hauser

terrorthat’s what it’s called

i couldn’t quite place the feelingIt’s hard to understand what it is

through all the silenceand a tad incoherent beneath the

safety of his arms

i could hear his heart beatingi never heard a heart like his before

never heard something that was mine

but it was hard to ignore the terror

when i was younger i would lay on my father’s chest

his strength was what pushed me to find some of my own

and i would just listen for what was inside

it was his big old heart that kept him going

it was scary to mehow that booming beating thing

inside of my fatherwould determine whether he lived

or died

and then years laterlaying on your chest

a different type of tranquilitysafety

and then

terrori heard it

a sound i had never heard beforethis was not my father’s heart, no,

this was much worsethis was what i lived and loved and

ached forthis was the heart that determined

whether mine would go on thumping, in his chest and in my

ears

and as each moment passedi would wonder if the next beat

would be the lastlaying there together, he smiled

down at meand mustering a smile back made

me want to crybecause i knew that his heart was mine, until the day it wouldn’t be

at all

it was beating and beating and beating

until suddenly everything else was drowned out

it felt like i was inside of himi was going deaf with the rhythm of

our “love”

and so it goes:another tell-tale story

about a different man’s heart

98

Our Voices Rachel Augustin

Our voices, united,

capture the essence of thinking critically

Our voices, united,

foster comprehension of expressive ideas, theories, and intricate conclusions

Our voices, united,

communicate knowledgeable truths and concrete opinions

Our voices, united,

represent our collegiate community entirely

Our voices, united,

embody our point of view, simple and complex perspectives about life

Our voices, united,

echo the diversity in our university

Our voices, united,

dictated by a devoted faculty resonate continually

Our voices, united,

lead us to future objectives, where like minds think alike

Our voices, united,

exude unity

99

Secret WishJohnny Lawrence

Staring at the stars

Eyes wide open

Hands together

Up to my chest

You

wonder

what

is

on

my

mind

Gazing at the dark sky

Impatient for a shooting star

To make a wish

I cannot tell you

Until

it

comes

true

100

SpringCharlene Catalano

The rain made contact with the charcoal ground

As the season of spring greeted the town

The school bells rang

As the bluebirds sang

A story that was told before

When summer’s warmth meets winter’s core

101