No thing. No dream.
No soul toward
phosphorescence.
No burn. No black.
No come. No home. No
yes, no. No do, undo.
No sky, holler, hug.
No blue. No come back
as an ant or a king. No hover
over the body until it’s time
to let go. No know.
No now.
Whitney Hudak holds an MFA from Bennington and lives in Brooklyn, NY.
And when it was over
I wondered how long
i would be immersed in that warm and familiar
feeling of loss. it seeps into me.
it never loses its density
can’t dilute it
even with the tears it sheds.
the tides come and go
and the moon and sun cycle in and out
but they come back
people and things frequently don’t. they go into a dust heap
of lost stuff some where out in the midwest, perhaps, or the other side of the world
they could also be right around the corner in full living color but i don’t see them
once i lost a brother for good
he went into an other life or world from this scarred one of wounded
and wounding people.
this foggy life this hazy world
the days and nights gray and black
i lost a cat
and then a school
and a piece of jewelry i loved a cottage where
i lulled in the summer’s sun in childhood
lost that too, two more cats
and now i’ve lost a house and another among the men, who’ve left or been taken
or been banished by my self
did anyone tell you that’s what life is a procession of losses and
jumping to stones in succession. don’t slip on that mossy one
or skip the shiny one
no telling what you’ll miss
or what will get broken or scraped or burnt or blistered, scarred by the scratch of a low hanging branch
what twigs or soggy weeds you’ll pick up
between your toes or around your neck, and you’ll have to carry them with you
the rest of the way.
Sharmila is so naïve
She can’t pick between prudence and courage
She flogs dead horses
She allows herself to be found traipsing through the tulips
She’s a slow unlearner
She loves her unteacher
She wants 364 unbirthdays
What she resists persists
She depotentiates herself, silly goose,
Until her soul screams,”STOP”
Sonali Gurpur writes poetry and fiction. Her poems were recently picked for the ‘Commended’ and ‘Highly Commended’ categories of the Margaret Reid Prize for Traditional Verse, and for the city wide reading at the Austin International Poetry Festival. Her short story “See With Your Eyes Not Just Your Heart” was finalist at Glimmertrain.
be one and see this rose with me
she will snare and tear all that
care enough to be bold and hold;
all told, beauty reins with pain,
with a heart that will start and dart;
a tart, not a weed, she will need,
indeed, but inspire a choir and
a fire of want, she will taunt
a soul to pluck and tuck; she may
bring luck to a lover; discover
and uncover her scent; content
in her enchantment as she vies to die
The red shred of linen cuts
Mountains into halves and
Dyes the sand crimson black,
Burning holes into copper chests.
Brackish wind, no, waves.
Tides can’t decide. They
Run away only to come back.
Dry water shimmery reflects
Bulging eyes, singed black.
Roasting jellyfishes. Die.
The air tight, sand collapse.
Suffocating reds don’t do
Bottled messages, leaving
Crumbling bones, their
Tongueless cries.
Anny Fang is a sophomore majoring in Psychology, English, and Women’s Studies. Contrary to her appearance, she likes to pursue hobbies that can only be categorized as extreme. This usually means that you may either see her chewing some book in an obscure coffee shop or bungee-jumping in a third-world country.
Three black crows hop
in the deep snowy field
behind the library
The snow
glows orange
You sit in your car
engine killed
waiting for something
Nothing falls
from the cloudless night
*
There’s a point where you come to realize that this is exactly what you wanted to
happen
Why you start hiding things under your bed
neatly in bags
labeled and dated
Snipping out pictures of faces from magazines
for the simple way they feel between your fingers
how in dropping them
they resemble falling leaves
*
Your father sleeping upright on the couch
Your father screaming at you for not taking the dog out
Your father keeping the dog’s leash in his car for years after her death
Your father dying
*
The items pile up
all humming beneath you
shaking the mattress
asking you to listen
*
He isn’t dead
He’s just stopped
speaking to you
*
Someone taps on the car window
a school friend
asking for a ride
Asking too many questions
thinking you know
about something
how things end or are supposed to—
You’re not breathing but you should
You’re not listening because your ears
are packed with snow
*
Your collection
requires more stringent organization
so you begin sorting according to taste
tonguing each face
and placing them in tupperware
to keep out air
*
The white noise of winter
your friend in the passenger seat
fogging up the windows
with her living body
her kinetic body full of blood
A crow lands amongst the others
something in his beak
They fight for it
Splash of red
against the snow
Zoe Etkin is an MFA student at CalArts. She identifies as a poet but is also interested in hybrid forms. Etkin is a recent recipient of the Beutner Award for Excellence in the Arts. Hailing from Memphis, Etkin is interested in the South, but having lived in New Mexico and California, she infuses the West into her aesthetic.
