Trimmed branches bleed ice, Gray grass murmurs, discontent. Clouded dome white weeps. Rippled water Reality distorted. Walking back from class. Small in a big pond Standing at a puddle’s edge Sees upside-down world. Branches together Pointing, reaching, kissing tips Like cathedral doors.
Did Joseph have to babysit Jesus so Mary could go to her little sleepovers? She must’ve placed a cute baby pout on her lips and told him girls need a bit of fun. Then she’d arrive at Elizabeth’s in her pink bunny slippers, those fluffy ears bouncing along with her tapping toes and stay up [&
Smoldering Dreams — a golden shovel poem after Robert Frost, author of Bond and Free Please, don’t cast your love on me, I fear I’ll splinter. Why has the wide-open country withered to earth and bone. To circling walls. To snow — smothering that which ventures out. A dream she
By Fara Ling Ah Ma, A few weeks ago, I realized I have never written Ah Ma a letter. That means I have never told Ah Ma I love you. There’s no way to say it in Hokkien, Ah Ma’s mother tongue. Forcing the syllables wa ai lu to sit next to […]
By Julia Voyt Pages and pages of 12 size Times New Roman are bled across the paper feverishly, introductions and statistics under methods and conclusions. Not eating food and my bicep is smaller this week I talk faster to my family and I write, write, write. The earth outside smells different and sw
By Gabrielle Crone Only a hillbilly would bring their injured dog to the vet using twine as a leash. At least that’s what our vet, Westley, announced when he saw my grandpa, Charles Bailey, in the lobby of the clinic twine leash in hand. Gizmo had injured his paw, most [&helli
