10 Instant Messages to Godard
Poem by Klay James Enos
Ode to Crushes
Poem by Laura Tran
conversation works itself into crevices.
when i talked to her, i’m not too sure the difference between
flirting and being friendly
someone once said, there is no distinction
besides the blatant sexual innuendo
hidden between texts of lies
or perhaps
stretched out, elongated truths.
the other day, i reached inside my heart, grabbed a secret and decided that maybe
i shouldn’t be afraid anymore.
told her a story
blushing the whole way through.
laughing awkwardly, this is how i react
to her.
thanks to you,
i like her
or so i thought
jokes follow jokes
and i am confused
to how she is to me
into me
because being vulnerable is twice as bad as being lonely
my great wall up
invading questions pursue
how mind overpowers body
and every year,
i have noticed
crushes at least once
crushed
this is my ode to you,
how you keep me on a rollercoaster
fooling me otherwise to feelings i don’t exactly have
being worth it is no question
because being close to vulnerable gets to be
exciting.
Daddy’s Net
Poem by Chloe Dietz
this is a poem about power play and manipulation
to see the realization of your dreams through your children
and this is about what happens when
you put passion into
the limitations of someone else’s dream:
this afternoon the testy subject matter was stitched into cloth of over dining table
and the light was stuck in your hair like flies in a web my eyes wove.
I didn’t believe it for a second when you acted oblivious to the markings on your arms
no, it was the same way I did
when my inner demons were gossiping through my teeth
About how we were never brave enough to mention this to Daedalus
how every barricade and wall had boiled down to an adhesive
his son used for some feathers
how the two battering rams of those eyes only inspired us enough
to watch our brother choke on the melting wax of heaven’s lips
trying desperately to kiss Daddy’s dreams
We used to think he must have wedged them in the clouds
somewhere past that third island
but later learned that he funneled them underground
I think Icarus would have rather drowned
than hit the asphalt of his grave
where Dad had paved the water over with his roads.
there’s a Minotaur in the room
sitting on the dining table
and I don’t believe it for a second when you act oblivious to the markings on your arms
and to Daddy Daedalus and to Icarus
and how I’m sick of this I know you wish
those incisions
would sprout wings
the same way your arms cut through the air when you fling them
and want them to send you off
I know you’re fucking lying
but it’s fine
I know you’re trying to forget
but when you’re living on Crete’s ledge it’s too hard not to be incensed
we thought we knew what Dad had meant
but he had long stopped making sense
before the end
I wish your pain was mine instead
you don’t need any more regrets
but I
promise
I won’t let you jump ahead
and make that same mistake again
now that we know
there is
no net.
Untitled
Poem by Elizabeth Vulaj
Big brass symbols bang against one another
As if proving its strength louder than its opponent
As if declaring the wonderment that comes from you
Yesterday I saw an eagle in a sea of dead twigs and brittle branches up in the sky
The seedy remains of the top of a tree
Not the ideal, typical locale for a bird to eat
Or love
Or spit
My room is in that sea too
Torn posters
Peeling paint
Holes in the hardwood floor
Each foot fabricates a creaking whisper from the cracking floors
And makes the proclamation that anyone would know
That no staircase made magic from marbles
No wax angel heads
And no smiles spread
Come home here every night
And release their exhaust from the streets on the raggedy couch which is as sunk-in as my face
But the thought of you
Makes the dresser stop begging for repair
The hands that guide your conscience and tell you what to do
The hands that let you do everything you can in this stone-walled world
Imprinted straight lines
Measured width between fingers
Life shown on them
Remind me of the tears and terrible things torn
From feeling that imperfection is the twin of a waste of a life
We can waste time in this dust den
Making copper rings in a haze of peeled paint and vengeful sawdust
Twisting rope in this cunning bowl
Once you enter it
As unwashed and unaware of purity as it may be,
It has no happy smile
And holds no red balloons in its cavern of a mouth
As imperfect as it is,
Once you enter,
You slide down to the bottom
To me
Whether you want to or not
