Author: Devesh Patel

Aditi K // ARMS

In school, I was told to write,
About a place close to my heart.
I started thinking for really long,
Going through options, not knowing where to start.

Should I write about my studio,
Where I sit and paint for hours?
Or my grandma’s garden,
Where I always stop to sniff the flowers?

It dawned upon me then,
To write about wherever I feel at home,
The place I return to when I’m lost,
Where I don’t need to wander or roam.

How can I find this place,
Is it far away through mountains or farms?
No, I don’t need to look that far,
My safe place is in your arms.

On the way to class, or in your basement,
My safe place is wherever you are,
You’re there for me without being told,
You don’t need a map or the north star.

Together in a comfortable silence,
I’m nuzzled against your chest,
I choose to revel in the happiness,
Because with you, I don’t feel second best.

Kacey J // ME AND YOUNGER ME

When your eyes are turned outwards, you do your best to stretch the distance between the two of you.
Notice the distinction.
She is not stacked inside of you like a nesting doll, but cut out like a piece of paper.
When your eyes are turned inwards, the distance between you shrinks. It’s an uncomfortable closeness,
but here you are, cheek-to-cheek.
It’s hard not to feel embarrassed when you look at her gapped-teeth and pigtails.
It’s hard not to feel sorry when she points to your short hair and reminds you that you always wanted to grow it
out long.
Tell her how you do things she always wanted to do;
You cross the street without holding anyone’s hand, you read old books with no pictures.
In return, she reminds you of the smell of sunscreen and the sound of rubber shoes against linoleum floor,
Running down the hall and bursting through the door, out onto the playground,
Hot sun beating down, sweat sticking your bangs to your forehead.

Mor Evron // A SWIFT END

The owl, blending with the night, perches
Upon the church’s steeple;
Watching, waiting for the quiet whisper of what might be food.

In the distance, across the dark field, he can see
A hint of something small and brown
And so parting with its post, he glides towards his prey.

He cuts through the air, a miniature stealth bomber,
Nearing its helpless target.
After but a few seconds, he swoops in and strikes silently

A mouse that never saw it coming.

Erin Cullinan // THAT OTHER GIRL

I stare at the Girl that lives inside the mirror.
She always follows my lead,
She never strays from my command.
The reflective glass inside my room holds Her prisoner.
She does not complain, for She cannot.

I control what She says, when She moves, and how She looks.
She controls how I feel about myself: She feeds on my insecurities.
Our relationship is symbiotic in most ways:
She cannot exist without me
And without Her what would I be?

I cannot exist without Her and without me what would She be? Our relationship is symbiotic in most ways: I control how she feels about Herself: I feed on Her insecurities. She controls what I say, when I move, and how I look.

But I do not complain, for I cannot. I am a prisoner of the reflective glass in Her room. I never stray from what She says. I always follow Her lead. I forever stare at the Girl who lives outside of the mirror.

Youngseo Yi // MEMORY

My husband and I share a place by the tree.
One day, the sound of his voice calls out to me.
From out in the fields, through a window to the sink,
He calls me to come, to sit, and to think.

I yearn for his company, and seek it I will.
I leave my one dish unwashed by the sill.
I pluck a flower from a vase, his favorite, marigold
And leave my silent house, lonesome, barren and old.

I traverse up the hills, to the crux of the mound.
With the tree’s greenest of leaves shadowing the ground.
I watch the branches sway, with gentle idleness.
The sturdy bark of the tree stands crooked and timeless.

I place the marigold to the feet of my love,
When a gentle whisper calls out to me from above.
The leaves rustle, fervent, a cacophony of sound
The memories of bliss come rushing around.

I once sat under this tree, with my love by my side,
We ate lunch and knitted, or at least he had tried.
He snipped the yarn short, too small to be used.
“The yarn’s better this way,” he told me, amused.

The flower sits still, by the ground of the tree.
The only one to see this beautiful flower is me.
I yearn for his company, mourn for his choice,
Our place by the tree where I last heard his voice.

I come here to sit, to think and to grieve.
A part of me still wonders and wants to believe,
That if I was a better woman to the man that I love,
Then maybe he wouldn’t have brought his soul above.

Amy Finkelman // BEFORE YOU WERE BORN

Before you were born, you were the thought of fear about the future. Before you were born, you were a
mistake, an accident, and now a problem. Before you were born, your parents were working on a farm,
picking vegetables, and growing rice. You were living on a farm, hours outside of the city, up on a
mountain, in a tiny village. Before you were born, your parents worried about providing food for
themselves. You were a pea-sized fetus, undernourished, and under-developed growing each day.
Before you were born, you were the joy that brought a smile to your mother’s face, but tears, to your
fathers eyes. Before you were born, you were the fear of not getting the future you deserve. You were the
thought that your parents could not provide a life for you. Before you were born, you were the thought that
living somewhere else, becoming a new person, and having new parents would be the best option. The
only option.

Joy Gong // THE CAMPGROUND

Pitter patter,
Pitter patter:
The soft tap of rain down the car windows
Accompanies this sticky summer Saturday of June.
Soon Mom turns left off of Cedar Street and
Pulls into a clearing enveloped by pine trees,
Five, ten miles from the nearest supermarket.
A site so secluded even the GPS
Can’t seem to find it;
A place almost abandoned with
Soiled showers and murmuring mosquitoes;
A sector hidden from plain sight
Silent because we are the only ones there.
But our annual trip still
Sparks joy in my mind,
A thrill of adventure down my spine.
As night creeps into the open ceiling and
Paints the sky a deep sapphire blue,
Stars twinkle like tiny diamonds;
Telling stories in the blank canvas of the dark
As we tell stories of our own around a crackling fire.
Knowing the trip will be over too soon, too early
We gently toast marshmallows until just barely charred,
Savoring the sweet essence of simply being.

Waka Okuda // A BEE’S ARIA

The freshly risen sun smiles
Upon the dewy morning grass.
Soft light,
Gentle and warm,
Floods the field.
A quiet, yet musical
Hum
May be observed…

(but only if you wish to hear it.)

You must poise your ear
And your mind,
Completely
Still.
If you wish to hear the serenade,
The opera,
The shining solo star,
Of the meadow.

Matteo Arshad // PEAKS ISLAND

A strip of powdery sediment on the Northern side,
Where the bay’s gentle waves are embraced;
A barricade of rocks along the Southern,
The relentless Atlantic, pounding, pounding.

Children skipping, buckets clanking,
Rushing to the sandy shore.

Colorful crystals clinking in the pockets of collectors,
Their edges softened by the swirling sea and sand;
Younger children clustering around collapsing sand palaces,
Others out splashing in the shimmering waters.

Parents packing, children slumping,
Trekking back to the comforting cottage.

The shore quiets,
Lapping waves fill the silence;
The day’s final light casts its glow,
Painting the sky a warm peachy pink.

An oasis in a vast expanse of blue.

Leanna Bai // ODE TO MY PIANO

I know that expressing my gratitude
is quite overdue.
You’ve been with me
before I knew what it means to live
completely and utterly passionately—
No.
You taught me.

You’ve been patient all this time
when I’d smashed your bright, shiny keys in frustration
when I’d played too hard and ripped the delicate plastic coverings
of your bright, shiny keys.
You’ve felt warm teardrops
drip onto the surface of your bright, shiny keys.

Even so,
as my fingers prance left and right
you give soul to the universe
and tell untellable stories.
When your voice is heard,
the mind explodes with a myriad of colors.

I know that I’ve worn you out all these years,
and I have to say your bench is quite uncomfortable
but I will not trade the bright, shiny keys
that taught me what it means to live.