Kristin Lueke

January 2025 | poetry

i ask the sun too much

each plant i’ve kept alive so far i call my friend.

each of my friends has its own quiet prayer,

it’s called how i’d like to be cared for—

for instance, from a distance, please & gently,

within reach, without expectation but this—

i will try to stay alive if you try to understand me.

one is never not hungry for all my attention—

the gift of you bending you backwards

to please me. still another’s impossible,

erratic at best & unwilling to clarify—

you’ll just have to learn to learn what i want.

what i want? is a room where the light finds me

easy & all that we need, we have.

i tell my kin the world is burning

fetch a cool glass of water. this side of western ruin

we know as much about fire as we do about forever.

we have four words for the fear of everything,

start praying. begin with god / end with specifics.

ask—for your ancestor, the skill to keep all winter

a single flame alive. ask for revelation, for wanting

no weapon. to be closer, now, to you.

Kristin Lueke

Kristin Lueke is a Chicana poet and author of the chapbook (in)different math (Dancing Girl Press). Her work has appeared in Sixth Finch, Wildness, Frozen Sea, Maudlin House, HAD, and elsewhere. A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, she was a finalist for the 2024 Porter House Review Poetry Prize and received the Morris W. Kroll Poetry Prize from Princeton University, where she earned an AB in English. She also holds an MA from the University of Chicago. Kristin lives in northern New Mexico and writes at www.theanimaleats.com.

The Light Was Never Ours

January 2025 | poetry

On the bank of the Seine

in the heath and heart

of the sun’s playground—

that’s where we lay.

Our heads rest on a cushion of plight

as we sink further into the fields

of lush river violets, violets

smooching our petaled cheeks—

blanketing our freckles from the frigid

blistering air, softening

our cracked lips. We smear

violet husks across our faces

until they crumple, shriveling

from an absence of light

in these mallows of mid September

gloom, their ominous purple filling

the smiles across our faces before

their sweet sugar plum scent could

even frolick into our pores. We are

lifeless—but we weren’t always. For years

we smelled of the sun’s honeyed lemons

and orange meringue pie, raindrops

and gifts of gold. Our eyes shimmered

in the leathery moon’s shadows—

a crisp December glistening on the horizon.

At the peak of our ecstacy, we giggled

until cancer’s rind of tree bark

wrapped its treacherous ridges around

our lungs, punted splinters down our throats

to quench our laughter. Somehow

the wavering constellations illuminate

the ball point grasses’ narrow, finite hallways

before they retract into the night sky’s

lustrous black hole, the one trapping

each dusty auburn wish in an endless tunnel—

for more years of violet picking.

for more lemon scented sundays spent

basking in the sun’s generous warmth.

for more time—because the light was never ours.

Kaviya Dhir

Kaviya Dhir is a student poet based in Texas. As a junior in high school, she has been recognized by Georgetown University and the National Scholastic Art & Writing Awards for her work. She was recently named a finalist for the 2024-2025 Houston Youth Poet Laureate designation.