It was the morning glory
wreathed around the jersey’s
horns that turned you into
a vegetarian. The beast stood
there in the green pasture
like some bovine Ophelia,
brown, beautiful and tragic,
trailing white flowers, green hearts.
How could I ever eat you? you
murmured and made a pact
with the future never to do so.
I, with my eyes on the traffic lights,
missed the scene and the promise,
being concerned with the more
immediate future by depressing
the throttle and heading down the road.
In any case, my convolvulus
was not morning glory, but
bindweed, not beautiful, being
a depressing throttle of a vine itself:
smothering, persisting, insisting
on its own survival at the expense
of everything else. Rather like
ourselves, I guess. Which is why
I hated it so much, battled with it
with a fury, pointlessly ripping its
hateful fecundity from the currant
bushes, scrabbling, tearing the fleshy
spaghetti of its white roots from
the reluctant soil only pausing
from time to time to dream of sirloin.…
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Here I am
longing for what will never be
taken apart by an unbearable discontent
happiness goes away
humankind
spending too much time on a terrible story
it’s likely going to be ugly
it’s likely too that it’s either absurd choices
or a heinous tomorrow
an increase of this accidental tragedy
blinded by the promises of heaven
easily taken in I am
despite
the rumors of the curtain calls
without being seen
after years of this
I’m not myself
as kids learn to twitch
there is no second chance
– David M. Alper…
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Paradise, you should know, is but a version
of our world where everything is
just as it should be; hereabouts
brooks flow through lush meadows
frequented by hovering hummingbirds
and butterflies flitting between flowers
as dark-eyed houris, virginal but nubile,
splendidly endowed, outstretch and sun
themselves on lawns or rove vineyards,
ready and eager to ensorcell newcomers
with their wiles and charms, with figures
sinuous and sensuous, lovely to behold.…
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The Sun tries to say hello, but
bid her farewell, she’s not welcome
here. The darkness soothes
the sound of the feral bird rapidly
flapping its wings, beating against
its bone cage. It’s exhausted and
wounded. But it aches to hurt even more.
Shaking its cage. Left. Right. Up. Down.
Trapped. It’s too much for the bones to
bear. As the Sun shines light on the
imperfections of the world. The Moon’s
wickedness caters to the feral bird’s
craters. This is what it comes down to:
always sleeping my days away. This is what
it comes down to. Trying to keep the
feral bird at bay.
– Triniti Brown
Author’s Note: “Escaping the Feral Bird” represents the internal chaos of anxiety and depression. The “feral bird” is a symbol of the frantic, relentless thoughts that cage you, leaving you exhausted and trapped.…
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Wanderlust
I used to catch falling stars and set them adrift at sea
I formed constellations out of moon dust and traced galaxies into the sand
Waves crested and crashed, and sea foam swirled around my feet
And in the water, I saw the universe inviting me to dive in
Crave
I can still taste your honey on my lips,
your caressing tongue, bitter and pollen-laced.
Whispering bees brush velvet cheeks,
releasing saccharine nectar that floods a willing throat,
savoring your honey
– aelily
Author’s Note: I was born on a sinking island and named after a star. “Wanderlust”’s focus on escapism is a reflection on my wishes to travel and explore. It is also an ode to my mental health struggles—depression, anxiety, and PTSD.…
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I get this way, this time of year.
Light begins to shift and I will notice
………………that wheel turning.
Cicadas whirring louder, they will know.
They beckon their own dying
………………soon to come.
Come back, I ran ahead. The sunlight is still bold
and I see blue sky through the haze of heavy air and
………………brave cicadas. They leave their little shells some years,
carapaces rattling on the tree trunks. Less than corpses,
………………more than ghosts. I’ve plucked their wings of cellophane
to make my art, scavenged from the undead
who are gone to other places underground
………………to wait for seven years. Late summer is the worst part
of the southern year, when I turn older and begin to welcome dying
vines and fleeing birds and memories of school and change and
wood-smoke, bonfires, sweaters.…
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My two brothers share a bedroom in the middle of the hallway. I share a room with my sister down at the end, across from my mom and stepdad’s room.
My sister and I share one full-sized bed that’s pushed right up next to the window. I sleep on the window side. On the wall across from my sister’s side is a big mirror and when we jump on the bed, we watch ourselves in it.
Laughing.
Floating.
Hung up by a nail next to the mirror, right by the door frame, there’s a small, pink porcelain Lord’s Prayer wall plaque. It has dark pink and blue flowers in each of the rounded corners and the prayer is printed in fancy writing in the center.
Every night I clasp my hands underneath my chin and recite the prayer in my head as I kick my sister’s cold feet away.…
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