Bryce Abell
University of North Florida
North Florida
University of North Florida
North Florida
Jacksonville
the graveyard of the Timucua
their headstones read
TIAA
CSX & WELLS FARGO
BANK OF
America stacks stone on limestone
pillars to suffocate the mouth
of the St. Johns
brown water
the old river fills with brine
runoff erodes the ever bank,
fields where people hit balls
and blunts and concrete
a place for bridges
the on ramps to infinity
John E. Mathews likes red chicken bones
sucked to marrow in the arena riding up
I watch Arlington swallow itself
a metropolis of barbed wire fences
window bars and braided kudzu
the expressway is a gutter aglow
Tell me how Tom’s back
yard filling with smoke
under steamy streetlamps
is not an emergency
exit for the whole country
where gunfire is the light of a gentle torch
lighting the way to freedom
We educate ourselves with cards
against humanity, the things
people do to each other
an ocean
getting greedy
carved the path
for Bartram to trail
I followed him here
a first coast
down Forsyth makes noise
only police and protestors hear
let’s call the cops and ask them
what part of Main Street can I feel
safe on?
when the club opens
wood paneled doors with brass knobs
reflecting the gentle horror
of the genocidal statue mid-rear
I feel like a real maverick
getting ground into someone else
getting redneck ass to Travis $cott
next door, a pizza joint gets smoked
the 21st century
school where people learn numbers
become numbers, learn to
duck
floating in candy-cane lake, we
name him Howard. Take notes
on fraternity life as it unravels
in the squealing courtyards of the university
get your degrees
checked before you enter
stop the spread
of information
at the door
A final word
chiseled into the I-10 West
and broken ninety-five East
from coast to coast
river to the sea
traffic cones, the highwater marks
of Duval county
float the message across
we are not finished.
the graveyard of the Timucua
their headstones read
TIAA
CSX & WELLS FARGO
BANK OF
America stacks stone on limestone
pillars to suffocate the mouth
of the St. Johns
brown water
the old river fills with brine
runoff erodes the ever bank,
fields where people hit balls
and blunts and concrete
a place for bridges
the on ramps to infinity
John E. Mathews likes red chicken bones
sucked to marrow in the arena riding up
I watch Arlington swallow itself
a metropolis of barbed wire fences
window bars and braided kudzu
the expressway is a gutter aglow
Tell me how Tom’s back
yard filling with smoke
under steamy streetlamps
is not an emergency
exit for the whole country
where gunfire is the light of a gentle torch
lighting the way to freedom
We educate ourselves with cards
against humanity, the things
people do to each other
an ocean
getting greedy
carved the path
for Bartram to trail
I followed him here
a first coast
down Forsyth makes noise
only police and protestors hear
let’s call the cops and ask them
what part of Main Street can I feel
safe on?
when the club opens
wood paneled doors with brass knobs
reflecting the gentle horror
of the genocidal statue mid-rear
I feel like a real maverick
getting ground into someone else
getting redneck ass to Travis $cott
next door, a pizza joint gets smoked
the 21st century
school where people learn numbers
become numbers, learn to
duck
floating in candy-cane lake, we
name him Howard. Take notes
on fraternity life as it unravels
in the squealing courtyards of the university
get your degrees
checked before you enter
stop the spread
of information
at the door
A final word
chiseled into the I-10 West
and broken ninety-five East
from coast to coast
river to the sea
traffic cones, the highwater marks
of Duval county
float the message across
we are not finished.
Bryce Abell, English Major and self-styled frat boy at the University of North Florida, is also an educator at Bartram Trail High School. He grew up in St. Augustine, Florida, the nation's oldest city. As a Floridian, he enjoys what is left of his state's natural landscape and naturally abhors golf courses. He writes about the South, its people, and his place in it.
Claire Marie Anderson
Academy of Art University
rainy botticelli daydreams
Academy of Art University
rainy botticelli daydreams
The tall trees protect you when it rains
Their branches and boughs lean in to envelop
As they wet their hair in the skyfall
As they take a shower they close the curtain on you
Their greenery grows heavy
And their cliches grow overused
Their violent physical poetry grows stronger with Zephyr’s blow
Stealing away Flora and Fauna from beneath Demeter’s motherly wings
Announcing the arrival of spring or is it winter again
The Sun’s rays set in protest of the devil
Flowers blossom while wet drops land on gravel
With children’s handprints freshly molded to the earth
Green glows gold
You wish you had someone with you to watch the clouds go
With umbrellas closed
Their branches and boughs lean in to envelop
As they wet their hair in the skyfall
As they take a shower they close the curtain on you
Their greenery grows heavy
And their cliches grow overused
Their violent physical poetry grows stronger with Zephyr’s blow
Stealing away Flora and Fauna from beneath Demeter’s motherly wings
Announcing the arrival of spring or is it winter again
The Sun’s rays set in protest of the devil
Flowers blossom while wet drops land on gravel
With children’s handprints freshly molded to the earth
Green glows gold
You wish you had someone with you to watch the clouds go
With umbrellas closed
Claire Marie Anderson is originally from Houston, TX and is an Art History undergraduate student at Academy of Art University. Some of her poetry and prose has appeared in The Decadent Review, KAIROS Literary Magazine, and The Showbear Family Circus, among other publications.
Cooper Barron
University of Waterloo
An Ode to Fibonacci
University of Waterloo
An Ode to Fibonacci
love
math
for its
ultimate
complexities are
beyond infinite, glorious.
if god exists, he is hiding within math, no doubt.
proof is in the great constants, that which transcends math, which existed even before time.
style
a young poet truly believes
that he has style. that
everything that drips from his mouth
is milk and honey,
transcendental.
some truth about the world.
he trashes Milk and Honey
like some bandwagoner,
a literary teenybopper.
a young poet will always
pull out all the conventions
in every one of his poems.
there always seems to be
some biblical reference to
nymphs amongst myrrh-
whatever the hell that is.
old, reused themes
poems that were
written in the bedroom
under such convention,
and such sobriety
entertained nobody.
a young poet reads Bukowski
and hears his brutal honesty,
his awful truth about the world:
“writing or dying, you pick.”
the young poet believes
he has what Bukowski
coined as ‘style.’
he is wrong.
math
for its
ultimate
complexities are
beyond infinite, glorious.
if god exists, he is hiding within math, no doubt.
proof is in the great constants, that which transcends math, which existed even before time.
style
a young poet truly believes
that he has style. that
everything that drips from his mouth
is milk and honey,
transcendental.
some truth about the world.
he trashes Milk and Honey
like some bandwagoner,
a literary teenybopper.
a young poet will always
pull out all the conventions
in every one of his poems.
there always seems to be
some biblical reference to
nymphs amongst myrrh-
whatever the hell that is.
old, reused themes
poems that were
written in the bedroom
under such convention,
and such sobriety
entertained nobody.
a young poet reads Bukowski
and hears his brutal honesty,
his awful truth about the world:
“writing or dying, you pick.”
the young poet believes
he has what Bukowski
coined as ‘style.’
he is wrong.
Cooper Barron is a young writer from Canada, currently attending the University of Waterloo for Honors Arts. Barron is majoring in Rhetoric, Media, and Professional Communication, and has an overall passion for writing, especially poetry. Though this is their first outing being published, Barron plans on continuing to expand their writing career from this stepping stone and have more work published in the future.
Dalia A. Elmanzalawy
University of California, San Diego
Motherland
University of California, San Diego
Motherland
The calamities do not come singly,
but collect in hordes on the fringes.
This sacred land of my father--
they crumble her to dust.
I wash the blood from her stones,
when the hands of the clock stop.
They cut the heads off the olive trees,
but their roots remain steadfast.
I carry her between my ribs, upon
my shoulders, above my head.
I am the ransom in her palm,
should the world extend a hand.
If eternity throws its sharpest arrows,
I will meet them with my breast.
My tragedy is that I live in the lowest margins
that delude me with feigned concern.
I take the shortest path between the earth and sky,
when there is only one way back to her--
passing through the barrel of a rifle;
her anthem will guide my way.
The story of peace is a play,
and justice is theatrical.
Life is a stolen commodity,
and fate does not return me.
She now lives in a hollowed chest--
traced back to memories that haunt me.
And my saddest dreams
remain her everlasting youth.
Egypt
This journey down the storied Nile,
I catch the breeze and sail away.
Witness to eyes that do not fall on me--
bury me under Saharan sand,
let the mirage spin me into oblivion.
Now begins the fall of the sun;
I look up to the paling sky to catch
the gold that scatters in the palms of the river.
And enclose my ribs about the last
escaping heat while I search for a bitter
farewell, sift through piles of warm sand--
the current begging to drown me.
but collect in hordes on the fringes.
This sacred land of my father--
they crumble her to dust.
I wash the blood from her stones,
when the hands of the clock stop.
They cut the heads off the olive trees,
but their roots remain steadfast.
I carry her between my ribs, upon
my shoulders, above my head.
I am the ransom in her palm,
should the world extend a hand.
If eternity throws its sharpest arrows,
I will meet them with my breast.
My tragedy is that I live in the lowest margins
that delude me with feigned concern.
I take the shortest path between the earth and sky,
when there is only one way back to her--
passing through the barrel of a rifle;
her anthem will guide my way.
The story of peace is a play,
and justice is theatrical.
Life is a stolen commodity,
and fate does not return me.
She now lives in a hollowed chest--
traced back to memories that haunt me.
And my saddest dreams
remain her everlasting youth.
Egypt
This journey down the storied Nile,
I catch the breeze and sail away.
Witness to eyes that do not fall on me--
bury me under Saharan sand,
let the mirage spin me into oblivion.
Now begins the fall of the sun;
I look up to the paling sky to catch
the gold that scatters in the palms of the river.
And enclose my ribs about the last
escaping heat while I search for a bitter
farewell, sift through piles of warm sand--
the current begging to drown me.
Dalia A. Elmanzalawy was born in Cairo, Egypt and raised in Los Angeles, CA. An avid reader and writer, she is currently working on a debut fiction novel and a short story anthology simultaneously. She is a 5th year undergraduate student at the University of California, San Diego, with a double major in creative writing and biochemistry. Her work can be found in English, French, and Arabic in poetic diversity, Middle East Times, Le Progrès Egyptien, El Tahrir, andThe Collegian, among others
Nanami Fetter
Portland State University
Bugs
Portland State University
Bugs
How many bugs are ghosts?
Floating around aimlessly.
Crushed in an instant, nothing more.
Or do they not even have the slightest
attachment to this world?
(Should I phrase it a different way?
I am asking you if they are not longing.)
Floating around aimlessly.
Crushed in an instant, nothing more.
Or do they not even have the slightest
attachment to this world?
(Should I phrase it a different way?
I am asking you if they are not longing.)
Nanami Fetter is a student currently attending Portland State University in Portland, Oregon.
Harmony Taylor Filson
Cumberland University
Role-Painted Lady Having Fun With Perspective
Cumberland University
Role-Painted Lady Having Fun With Perspective
When I do my hair up bouffant-dolly-big,
All is right, happy, and even nicer.
As the curls unravel in my hand and down my back,
As they should,
I’ll take a swig of unkind diamonds.
The crows mock my lipstick.
A spoken bitter beauty mark,
Leaves no scars.
I am a hawk.
Sometimes.
Look.
I painted a rose
In a black tar jar.
Dip, dip, dip
Add some glitter and the world is no longer bad.
All the cruel, the jealous, the broken--
Miss me.
As I paint my face bizarre,
Vague silhouettes trash talk my plastic bag dress.
Damn, this one's my best.
I’ll lace a ribbon through anything and everything,
I might even summon the evils of Cain.
I taste like what I paint.
Today, I think I’ll paint perspective.
A mindset that carries the stigma of blue,
Eyeshadow that’s too bold for you.
My hips are bent, I won’t see it.
I have days twisted.
I could brush them all perfect,
It doesn’t stop crows from watching.
Plucking at my confidence in the hopes that I vanish.
The sun told me I could be anything I wanted.
So, I’m something different every single day.
I Used To Be A Songbird
With a glass bottle and cards on the table,
I know I’ll never wrap my head around magic.
My character isn’t able.
It isn’t capable of most things I wish to do.
I can’t pronounce certain letters or sounds like I’m supposed to.
No matter how hard I try, my tongue simply won’t move.
Younger, melodic notes carried through the house.
Down the halls, through a cobalt kitchen.
Bouncing off the walls, and down the steps of the dungeon.
Sound found its way into Crystal Creek.
Songs coated my teeth like gargled olive oil.
I’m older now,
The chords don’t taste sweet.
With an under-dressed-up body and crazy hearts on my knees,
They don’t ask me to speak.
They don’t even ask me to sing,
Instead, they just look at me.
It doesn’t matter what comes out of my mouth.
They don’t hear a sound.
All is right, happy, and even nicer.
As the curls unravel in my hand and down my back,
As they should,
I’ll take a swig of unkind diamonds.
The crows mock my lipstick.
A spoken bitter beauty mark,
Leaves no scars.
I am a hawk.
Sometimes.
Look.
I painted a rose
In a black tar jar.
Dip, dip, dip
Add some glitter and the world is no longer bad.
All the cruel, the jealous, the broken--
Miss me.
As I paint my face bizarre,
Vague silhouettes trash talk my plastic bag dress.
Damn, this one's my best.
I’ll lace a ribbon through anything and everything,
I might even summon the evils of Cain.
I taste like what I paint.
Today, I think I’ll paint perspective.
A mindset that carries the stigma of blue,
Eyeshadow that’s too bold for you.
My hips are bent, I won’t see it.
I have days twisted.
I could brush them all perfect,
It doesn’t stop crows from watching.
Plucking at my confidence in the hopes that I vanish.
The sun told me I could be anything I wanted.
So, I’m something different every single day.
I Used To Be A Songbird
With a glass bottle and cards on the table,
I know I’ll never wrap my head around magic.
My character isn’t able.
It isn’t capable of most things I wish to do.
I can’t pronounce certain letters or sounds like I’m supposed to.
No matter how hard I try, my tongue simply won’t move.
Younger, melodic notes carried through the house.
Down the halls, through a cobalt kitchen.
Bouncing off the walls, and down the steps of the dungeon.
Sound found its way into Crystal Creek.
Songs coated my teeth like gargled olive oil.
I’m older now,
The chords don’t taste sweet.
With an under-dressed-up body and crazy hearts on my knees,
They don’t ask me to speak.
They don’t even ask me to sing,
Instead, they just look at me.
It doesn’t matter what comes out of my mouth.
They don’t hear a sound.
Harmony Taylor Filson is a senior; she is currently attending college in Lebanon, Tennessee. She hopes to share her passion for creative writing with readers and her future students alike.
Joaquin Gavilano
University of Arkansas
Masacre de Octubre, 2003
University of Arkansas
Masacre de Octubre, 2003
The day we came home from Requiem Mass—
remembering Mama Sana— rioters broke down
the door. Mostly empty house, they left
a wrecking bar behind. I was seven and couldn’t
understand why we covered the windows
with mattresses. “Es por si hay una bala perdida.”
Why would a bullet be lost? The danger
we felt, a mirage. We were safe inside
the blanket fort we built in the basement.
The news channel displayed tanks
next to San Miguel’s church.
“It’s all material, thank God.”
The first time I was angry
at Him. We sang hymns to You
not even an hour ago.
Carousel
Premature birth mishandled.
Inexperienced nurses. You lost
your sight and your twin lost his life.
Dead brother’s name shoved
into your own--
uninvited burden.
The city, an unforgiving
place for a sightless boy.
Remember the carousel?
It was your favorite spot.
Passersby would say “There he is, the blind
man who sings.” You would sit there for hours
Listening to children’s glee—
something you had stolen.
“Let’s have a coffee and talk.”
“Maybe next week”
Your blood vessels asphyxiated your brain.
Far from the unforgiving city, third world
roads are not easy to navigate.
Warmed up the car and drove to
meet the ambulance at the clinic’s entrance.
Your screams still ringing “Mamá,
donde estas?!” As they took you to the MRI room.
remembering Mama Sana— rioters broke down
the door. Mostly empty house, they left
a wrecking bar behind. I was seven and couldn’t
understand why we covered the windows
with mattresses. “Es por si hay una bala perdida.”
Why would a bullet be lost? The danger
we felt, a mirage. We were safe inside
the blanket fort we built in the basement.
The news channel displayed tanks
next to San Miguel’s church.
“It’s all material, thank God.”
The first time I was angry
at Him. We sang hymns to You
not even an hour ago.
Carousel
Premature birth mishandled.
Inexperienced nurses. You lost
your sight and your twin lost his life.
Dead brother’s name shoved
into your own--
uninvited burden.
The city, an unforgiving
place for a sightless boy.
Remember the carousel?
It was your favorite spot.
Passersby would say “There he is, the blind
man who sings.” You would sit there for hours
Listening to children’s glee—
something you had stolen.
“Let’s have a coffee and talk.”
“Maybe next week”
Your blood vessels asphyxiated your brain.
Far from the unforgiving city, third world
roads are not easy to navigate.
Warmed up the car and drove to
meet the ambulance at the clinic’s entrance.
Your screams still ringing “Mamá,
donde estas?!” As they took you to the MRI room.
Joaquin Gavilano is an English Major at the University of Arkansas. He is planning to join an MFA in Creative Writing or Translations once he graduates. He was born and raised in Bolivia and his native language is Spanish; however, he has always had a passion for English as a language.
Tessa Herbstritt
University of Wisconsin-Stout
A Repaired Artist
University of Wisconsin-Stout
A Repaired Artist
A blank canvas
Was a hallowed void
Awaiting to be filled
With the broken remains
Of the soul pallet
And blood mixed paints
The brush made from the
Fallen eyelashes
That never once granted the child's wish
Each stoke was a memory
That was embedded into the canvas
Like an illness that was never cured
Each piece
Of the artist
Was now filling the void
Until the artist
Drained their soul
Their blood
Their lashes
Their memories
Into the void
To create the artist
They wanted to be
A Memory I Want to Forget
There was always a feeling of dirtiness
Like an object out of place
On a seemingly tame shelf
There was something unorganized
About the posture of the being
That only seemed to collect dust
An object that was glossed over
For every cleaning
Year after year
A toy that was a hand-me-down
It was never wanted
But no one had the heart to say something
Its vibrant color did not match
The other knickknacks
And souvenirs from happy times
The little red memory
Drenched in blood and filth
Could never be given away
No matter how many times you want to toss it aside
It will always reappear
In the same place
The same color
The same feeling of sorrow
It was simply something
That just sat in the corner
Until it wasted away
Was a hallowed void
Awaiting to be filled
With the broken remains
Of the soul pallet
And blood mixed paints
The brush made from the
Fallen eyelashes
That never once granted the child's wish
Each stoke was a memory
That was embedded into the canvas
Like an illness that was never cured
Each piece
Of the artist
Was now filling the void
Until the artist
Drained their soul
Their blood
Their lashes
Their memories
Into the void
To create the artist
They wanted to be
A Memory I Want to Forget
There was always a feeling of dirtiness
Like an object out of place
On a seemingly tame shelf
There was something unorganized
About the posture of the being
That only seemed to collect dust
An object that was glossed over
For every cleaning
Year after year
A toy that was a hand-me-down
It was never wanted
But no one had the heart to say something
Its vibrant color did not match
The other knickknacks
And souvenirs from happy times
The little red memory
Drenched in blood and filth
Could never be given away
No matter how many times you want to toss it aside
It will always reappear
In the same place
The same color
The same feeling of sorrow
It was simply something
That just sat in the corner
Until it wasted away
Tessa Herbstritt is a second-year student at the University of Wisconsin-Stout. Tessa has been writing since her junior year of high school and found a love for poetry her senior year. She is studying Art Education and plans to teach high school art classes along with adult painting classes in her community.
Danny Mask
UNNC
UNNC
In that last minute before
your next birthday, I picture
you as some odd Hallmark card,
leaning over your cake in a starched
white blouse, when your breasts
unfurl like a ripped bag of apples.
You, backstroking onto your cake.
Me, watching you stumble and fall.
A deep pink blush slithers its way
up your neck. The floor is hard
and wants you as the bottom drops
out of your world with the candles
burning brightly between your legs.
You beg the muse for a second chance
and your imperfect smile nearly soldiers
one together with souvenir shop novelty.
Yet, the cake is lost.
your next birthday, I picture
you as some odd Hallmark card,
leaning over your cake in a starched
white blouse, when your breasts
unfurl like a ripped bag of apples.
You, backstroking onto your cake.
Me, watching you stumble and fall.
A deep pink blush slithers its way
up your neck. The floor is hard
and wants you as the bottom drops
out of your world with the candles
burning brightly between your legs.
You beg the muse for a second chance
and your imperfect smile nearly soldiers
one together with souvenir shop novelty.
Yet, the cake is lost.
Are you happy birthday?
Danny Mask is a returned Peace Corps Volunteer, currently attending University of North Carolina in Charlotte. His poems have appeared online in Visual Verse: An Anthology of Art and Words.
Kelly Marie McDonough
Southern New Hampshire University
Attachments
Southern New Hampshire University
Attachments
Bone of my spine,
Can I take you apart?
You have grown
Knitted together, upholding
My life and my heart,
Weaving love into action.
Can I break you out?
Will the separation be my undoing?
I let you in, like a neighbor for sugar
And you stayed.
Spreading sweetness in bitter ground.
Ladder of cartilage and web of bone,
We built a life together,
But I did not know you were already tainted.
A poison drop in a sea of blood,
Does it dilute to a harmless level?
Vertebrae, my foundation.
Columns constructed over time.
You laid the lines
That drew my life.
I cannot remove or erase you now.
Can I take you apart?
You have grown
Knitted together, upholding
My life and my heart,
Weaving love into action.
Can I break you out?
Will the separation be my undoing?
I let you in, like a neighbor for sugar
And you stayed.
Spreading sweetness in bitter ground.
Ladder of cartilage and web of bone,
We built a life together,
But I did not know you were already tainted.
A poison drop in a sea of blood,
Does it dilute to a harmless level?
Vertebrae, my foundation.
Columns constructed over time.
You laid the lines
That drew my life.
I cannot remove or erase you now.
Kelly Marie McDonough is a two-time cancer survivor, avid reader, and makeup enthusiast. She is working on building her poetry portfolio and is heavily influenced by Poe and Anne Sexton. Murder, madness, and literary references are her passion. She lives in Illinois with her supportive husband and their four mischievous cats.
Mercury-Marvin Sunderland
Evergreen State College
I Love Dead Flies
Evergreen State College
I Love Dead Flies
there are flies
who are black
with a thin blue line
and i think that is a perfect metaphor
because you think you are the shit
but you eat shit
who are black
with a thin blue line
and i think that is a perfect metaphor
because you think you are the shit
but you eat shit
Mercury-Marvin Sunderland (he/him) is a transgender autistic gay man from Seattle with Borderline Personality Disorder. Mercury-Marvin currently attends the Evergreen State College and works for Headline Poetry & Press. Mercury-Marvin has been published by UC Riverside's Santa Ana River Review, UC Santa Barbara's Spectrum Literary Journal, and The New School's The Inquisitive Eater. Mercury-Marvin's lifelong dream is to become the most banned author in human history. He's @Romangodmercury on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter.
Lydia Yawn
Valdosta State University
Letters I Never Sent
Valdosta State University
Letters I Never Sent
An angry email to the Klondike brand:
Why don’t you make the Choco-Tacos lactose free?
I cannot enjoy my favorite ice-cream
treat due to my newly-developed
ailment. A silly email I wrote jokingly while
in a hotel lobby with my mother—each night
of our vacation, my father would want ice cream
after our hot beach day. A lovely little treat;
a chocolate-dipped waffle cone in the shape of a taco
shell, my belly aches for hours after ingestion.
A note to my late Nana, folded into an origami crane:
Please hear me. Please love me still. Please. Please.
Her old bedroom—the room at the opposite
end of the house. I rip the paper out of my
composition book, folding it into a perfect
square, licking the ends to tear off the excess.
I’m so sorry, it reads, followed by lyrics
to The 1975’s “Nana.” I didn’t want to tell
you while you were still here, in fear of what you
would think--but I like to think you hear me sometimes.
An apology to Santa for crying, left under the cookie plate:
I’m sorry for my tears. Please don’t leave me coal, Mr. Claus.
Before I knew Santa was my mother
and father waking up early on Christmas
morning. Before I knew that my sisters were
exceptional secret keepers. After my maternal
grandmother passed. After the nerves set in.
My mother told me if I couldn’t stop crying
at school, Santa would bring me coal
and an ass-whooping.
A love-letter to my best-friend’s brother:
Pretty pale blues, a nice contrast to her greens. Please don’t tell.
He went on vacation. Left school on a Thursday.
A cruise. He took a break from his girlfriend,
leading me on for the second time in our acquaintanceship.
Each day was a new poem, cliché lines about his blue
eyes and dark brown hair. Each night a drunken I love
you message from the middle of the sea. He ignores
me the next week, leaving me to write letters to no one,
dreaming of his eyes, swimming in my own anger.
A notepad to hold myself accountable, read by my (ex)boyfriend:
March, 78 degrees. Reaching a point. Can’t take it anymore.
Pre-therapy. Journaling was a coping mechanism
for the feelings I that I didn’t want to feel. Each
entry was formatted the same: Date, Weather, Quote,
Feelings. Front and Back. Filled in throughout the day.
I left it behind to buy myself lunch, coming back
to see it in his hands. The hands that had already touched
me. Yet another thing he tainted without consent. I snatch
it from his hands—something I wish I could’ve done for myself.
An apology to my mother after we fought.
I’m sorry, Mama. Please don’t hate me. Please. Please.
The first instance of gaslighting. Probing me. Prodding
me. I didn’t mean to, Mama, I’m sorry. Nerves
that a seven-year-old should not harbor eat away at my spine;
fat tears roll from the corners of my eyes, down
my chubby cheeks and onto the paper. I think
about shoving the paper under her bedroom door--
I crawl under my bed with my teddy, shoving the note
in the far corner where she will never see.
Plus-sized
My body began to form, taking shape
within my mother’s womb in February
of 1999. I grew in her belly,
doing somersaults inside of her,
stretching her skin until she could pop.
November of the same year, I arrived.
Eight ounces short of ten pounds.
My blood sugar was low, gestational
diabetes of my mother affecting my chubby,
newborn body. She ate Snicker bars,
Chick-Fil-A cheesecake, and warm yeast
rolls. I drank them from her breasts--
colostrum first before it turned to milk.
Nobody likes a skinny baby, they would
tell her when the topic of my leg rolls arose.
They want to squish my legs, pinch my cheeks,
and tickle my feet, hold me, squeeze me, handing
me back to feed. She would take me to church
on Sunday mornings, letting the old ladies hold
me close and the newly-weds get a feel for a baby
in their arms—passing me around like the offering plate.
The teasing starts in elementary school--
when it is no longer acceptable to hold
your baby weight in your cheeks
and tummy. Mama learned from her mother
to always wear an undershirt. I layered
my clothes with modesty in mind until
undershirts transitioned into training bras
after my eight-year growth-spurt.
Boobies! I repeat after Mama when she tells
me what’s growing on my chest. My chubby body
was expanding, tummy growing outwards,
breasts becoming fuller, thighs more muscular,
hips, arms, calves, feet, all growing—giving the boys
in my class more to poke at during recess.
The transition from training to padded is a blur,
moving quickly from stretchy cotton to a B-cup--
the same size as my sister, seven years
my senior. Moving quickly from primary
to elementary to middle: training, B-cup, Double-D.
The sizes in-between went missing, but the stretch marks
are evident, leaving lightning-shaped scars on belly,
inner-thighs, armpits, and breasts.
My growth seems endless; the boys pinch my ass
and poke at my belly, but it does not hinder
my growth. I continue to develop despite
the mold they try to fit me into. My body curves,
and finally, they have nothing left to say.
Nobody likes a skinny baby, but does anyone
like a fat girl? When do my chubby cheeks
and tummy turn from cute to contemptible?
By high school, having heard it all,
they know not to bring it up. My hips curve
and dip, breasts full, thighs muscular, arms strong,
and their words cannot reach me. Lightning-shaped
scars litter my body, and though some find
it contemptible, I find it delightful and worthy
of love like my mother gave me as I grew
inside her belly into the woman I am today.
Why don’t you make the Choco-Tacos lactose free?
I cannot enjoy my favorite ice-cream
treat due to my newly-developed
ailment. A silly email I wrote jokingly while
in a hotel lobby with my mother—each night
of our vacation, my father would want ice cream
after our hot beach day. A lovely little treat;
a chocolate-dipped waffle cone in the shape of a taco
shell, my belly aches for hours after ingestion.
A note to my late Nana, folded into an origami crane:
Please hear me. Please love me still. Please. Please.
Her old bedroom—the room at the opposite
end of the house. I rip the paper out of my
composition book, folding it into a perfect
square, licking the ends to tear off the excess.
I’m so sorry, it reads, followed by lyrics
to The 1975’s “Nana.” I didn’t want to tell
you while you were still here, in fear of what you
would think--but I like to think you hear me sometimes.
An apology to Santa for crying, left under the cookie plate:
I’m sorry for my tears. Please don’t leave me coal, Mr. Claus.
Before I knew Santa was my mother
and father waking up early on Christmas
morning. Before I knew that my sisters were
exceptional secret keepers. After my maternal
grandmother passed. After the nerves set in.
My mother told me if I couldn’t stop crying
at school, Santa would bring me coal
and an ass-whooping.
A love-letter to my best-friend’s brother:
Pretty pale blues, a nice contrast to her greens. Please don’t tell.
He went on vacation. Left school on a Thursday.
A cruise. He took a break from his girlfriend,
leading me on for the second time in our acquaintanceship.
Each day was a new poem, cliché lines about his blue
eyes and dark brown hair. Each night a drunken I love
you message from the middle of the sea. He ignores
me the next week, leaving me to write letters to no one,
dreaming of his eyes, swimming in my own anger.
A notepad to hold myself accountable, read by my (ex)boyfriend:
March, 78 degrees. Reaching a point. Can’t take it anymore.
Pre-therapy. Journaling was a coping mechanism
for the feelings I that I didn’t want to feel. Each
entry was formatted the same: Date, Weather, Quote,
Feelings. Front and Back. Filled in throughout the day.
I left it behind to buy myself lunch, coming back
to see it in his hands. The hands that had already touched
me. Yet another thing he tainted without consent. I snatch
it from his hands—something I wish I could’ve done for myself.
An apology to my mother after we fought.
I’m sorry, Mama. Please don’t hate me. Please. Please.
The first instance of gaslighting. Probing me. Prodding
me. I didn’t mean to, Mama, I’m sorry. Nerves
that a seven-year-old should not harbor eat away at my spine;
fat tears roll from the corners of my eyes, down
my chubby cheeks and onto the paper. I think
about shoving the paper under her bedroom door--
I crawl under my bed with my teddy, shoving the note
in the far corner where she will never see.
Plus-sized
My body began to form, taking shape
within my mother’s womb in February
of 1999. I grew in her belly,
doing somersaults inside of her,
stretching her skin until she could pop.
November of the same year, I arrived.
Eight ounces short of ten pounds.
My blood sugar was low, gestational
diabetes of my mother affecting my chubby,
newborn body. She ate Snicker bars,
Chick-Fil-A cheesecake, and warm yeast
rolls. I drank them from her breasts--
colostrum first before it turned to milk.
Nobody likes a skinny baby, they would
tell her when the topic of my leg rolls arose.
They want to squish my legs, pinch my cheeks,
and tickle my feet, hold me, squeeze me, handing
me back to feed. She would take me to church
on Sunday mornings, letting the old ladies hold
me close and the newly-weds get a feel for a baby
in their arms—passing me around like the offering plate.
The teasing starts in elementary school--
when it is no longer acceptable to hold
your baby weight in your cheeks
and tummy. Mama learned from her mother
to always wear an undershirt. I layered
my clothes with modesty in mind until
undershirts transitioned into training bras
after my eight-year growth-spurt.
Boobies! I repeat after Mama when she tells
me what’s growing on my chest. My chubby body
was expanding, tummy growing outwards,
breasts becoming fuller, thighs more muscular,
hips, arms, calves, feet, all growing—giving the boys
in my class more to poke at during recess.
The transition from training to padded is a blur,
moving quickly from stretchy cotton to a B-cup--
the same size as my sister, seven years
my senior. Moving quickly from primary
to elementary to middle: training, B-cup, Double-D.
The sizes in-between went missing, but the stretch marks
are evident, leaving lightning-shaped scars on belly,
inner-thighs, armpits, and breasts.
My growth seems endless; the boys pinch my ass
and poke at my belly, but it does not hinder
my growth. I continue to develop despite
the mold they try to fit me into. My body curves,
and finally, they have nothing left to say.
Nobody likes a skinny baby, but does anyone
like a fat girl? When do my chubby cheeks
and tummy turn from cute to contemptible?
By high school, having heard it all,
they know not to bring it up. My hips curve
and dip, breasts full, thighs muscular, arms strong,
and their words cannot reach me. Lightning-shaped
scars litter my body, and though some find
it contemptible, I find it delightful and worthy
of love like my mother gave me as I grew
inside her belly into the woman I am today.
Lydia Yawn is a junior—year English major. Her primary focus is creative writing, and her affinities include poetry and nonfiction. Currently, she is an English tutor and the poetry editor for the undergraduate literary journal, Odradek.