2nd Prize — Beatrice Vaughn

I sit between two horizons—one for this life, and one for the next—awaiting a transformation in the sun, like I’ve never seen its light before

Sun shines down on me, reflecting off the gold chain ‘round my neck

i guess i’m sad, a thousand and some miles from the street corner you once stood

waiting eternally for the light to turn green

but it is only so far, and i choke on the sustained beauty of life

Sun shines on me, warming my exposed shoulders, a constant reminder that i am alive

even if you are not

i must be sad, it’s the only explanation

for how the noose on my heart is listening in

reminding me that your favourite colour was chartreuse

not clementine

Sun shines on me, hung in suspension

i could’ve sworn it was clementine

you were always speaking of the hunter moon

the way we could dance in her embrace

waltz beneath a moon of dried oranges

how romantic a thought

Sun shines on me, and I’m told you are in a Better Place

was i not a good enough place?

the world apologises continuously and if apologies could revive the dead i’d have you

back by

now

it is the middle of october, and i can barely recall the names of my favourite flowers

much less yours

Sun shines on me, and I am constantly remembering what I forgot

the chill of concrete, the way you could never bake a cake without burning it

the sirens as they screamed, the way you laughed like you’d never heard anything so

funny

even if the joke was overtold to start

Sun shines on me, and I have reached Acceptance

a thousand and some miles from you and your clementine skin, your chartreuse love,

your grassy hair and

your nightshade eyes

you’re telling a story i’ve heard before and i’m responding (in the sun)

Tell me again.

I miss you.

Antoinette Bwabwa

Forgotten

Tonight the breeze outside is cool

I step onto the asphalt

Letting the wind pierce through

The tight blouse

That’s the only thing pinching the remains of my dreams in place

I look up at the moon

Only to find nothing but pity within its gaze

It has nothing left to give

I can’t help but

Think just how the moon’s eyes remind me of her light brown eyes

her small frame that moved so quickly, even in her old age

And the small dejected smile that haunted her pale face, despite all efforts

I hear her soft humming

Brush beside my ear

It's most likely the wind

Yet I’m trying to cling onto

The last bit of her presence

How far is too far gone?

I open the car door

Toss the purse I never needed, sit down

Feeling regret trickling down my spine

I want to set forth my anger into something, someone

Tears litter my face, wetting the mascara that only ever irritated my eyes

I dial the number, I’d almost forgotten in the 10 years that have passed

My hand trembles just like the uneven heartbeats in my chest

No one picks up

I had forgotten

10 years ago

The rage

My ruthless eyes that contained no mercy or gratitude

Forgotten her calloused hands and worn down body that dug through darkness

      to pave my success

Forgotten my very own mother

Even if I’ve now accepted her love

It’s night, and no one comes

Theodore Greenawalt

Re: Last Summer

You, sandcastling memory

seafoam scour, your edges

dulled.

You, skin like quiet

cocoon me, absorb me

found.

You, ribs of satin

lungs push into breathing

misplaced.

You, iris swimming

milk-sweet open skin

unbled.

Meet me in rainstorms, in unembarked fences, beneath a moon of dried oranges

freed.

Ingrid Merkner

Origami Earth

Together we sit

beneath a moon of dried oranges.

We’re drinking starlight in little glasses

and dreaming of how our lives will unfold in the morning.

Our world is still perfectly folded up tonight, the origami of the earth

providing us a soft place to rest our tired bones.

The gentle trees are housing hundreds of crunchy leaves that smell of

cinnamon and chai and dirt.

But the leaves of autumn are slowly falling,

and we are no longer naive enough to misunderstand what that means.

It will be winter soon.

And your limbs will grow weak.

I will watch, helpless and foolish and perhaps equally as weak,

believing that my long song of agony will do something for you.

The moon and sky will turn white again,

and our tangerine sunsets and moonrises together will become a distant memory.

I will question if they ever even happened.

And once your body is finally gone, your spirit will follow soon after.

Then I will try to follow too.

I will wait

restlessly for my body to decay into our

freshly torn and bleeding origami earth.

But until then, I will slowly morph into

a shell,

a husk,

a mirage of all that we used to be.

Jasmie Wilson

negative space

it is night, and no one comes.

i patiently wait for my eyes to adjust

but they never will.

my pupils wide as dimes

the same hue as my surroundings

i raise my left arm

can i see an inkling of color?

no.

my unsaturated, lonely world.

i yell into the abyss

satisfied that i can still hear the

sound of my own voice

i expect an echo but there is none.

i wonder how far i can walk

how much space i have

i decide not to test my luck

what luck i have

to be here

where it is night, and no one comes.

Lorenzo Candeleria

Father

You sit across from me

– you are my equal! –

and when I hold your hand, I forget about the inconvenience of mortal comfort.

You are woefully unaccustomed to these awkward frames of flesh

and I am only inclined to agree because of your trusting doe eyes

– in which I see myself –

that leak their innocence back into your brackish domain

the liminal space between your sobs and your stony facade.

I will never forgive you. And it is not for a lack of trying because the cold truth

is that I will always love you. My heart

my eyes and nose and cheeky smile, the way I can’t get los tigres del norte out of my playlists

– or out of my head –

the undeniably “you” things that are me.

I’ve seen you cry before. Only faintly

when I can’t tell until the light hits your face just right.

– I’m surprised the sclera hasn’t gone yellow yet –

You recount how much it hurt to imagine me dead, because

only He should decide when it’s my time.

You said that I would carry the world on my back

I concur, but you remind me that I can’t drop dead

if I want the Amazon to stop burning.

My body is weaker than yours

but I promise I could beat you in a test of endurance

– He holds no power, they killed God decades ago –

Though my hands are stubby,

they fit with yours. It reminds me

that you still have work to do

and that one day you will let go of The Firmament

but for now

can I rest my head on your shoulder?

Landon Holland

Melting Pot

My name is Landon Holland and I am a melting pot.

I was born from all places, from the cold, gray landscapes of Eastern Europe,

to the scorching waves of equatorial Africa.

I’m not good at poetry, and this is no exception,

These lines are hard to intertwine,

It’s reminiscent of how I struggle with my identity.

I sit between two horizons.

On the surface I am white, that's how most people see me.

I know that my dad can be traced back to Eastern Europe.

My mom’s side is way less known to me, my grandpa's grandpa was a slave,

      that's about all I know.

But it leaves me at a place between cultures.

Regardless of how you see it, I won the damn lottery.

This white skin of mine puts me at a major advantage.

My mother is black but she has a white voice.

Here’s an example of the shit others face,

when they aren't a part of this pale-ass race.

At one point we were looking for a new place to stay.

She was on the phone when I overheard what this guy had to say.

 “Ma’am it's a great neighborhood, it's a mostly white space”

My reaction to that was like “what the fuck?”

My mom isn’t white, you pasty, old, cuck.

We didn’t move there after hearing that.

But there's two things I know that are absolute fact,

babies aren't racist, and Jesus was black.

It’s crazy, these oldheads, they forget how to act.

Old fucks tryna be racist right in my face,

all expecting me to agree and shit, because I ain’t black.

Like the color of my skin is a declaration of race.

The squabbles of these troglodytes are nothing but petty.

Racists have single digit IQ’s.

Because of them, the world deals with abuse.

We must fight the hate with the love we produce.

We as a people must let it be known that racists like them will soon atone.

Be it karma or hell or public humiliation. If you see something, say something.

You’re not alone.

Naomi Nguyen

Remember the Night

When I leave,

Remember the night your sorrow

Broke over your spine

And you spiraled down to the star-filled lake,

When you hoped the river basin

Would hold you

In its dark palms that prickled with evergreens,

So you could float in its midnight depths

And sink into forgetfulness.

Remember the stones,

How you took the earth’s discarded pieces in your hands

And cast them onto the water’s glassy surface,

Sending ripples of moonlight across the deep that turned the forest to smoke

Washing your reflection from the shore

Until you were nothing but a fractured canvas,

Scattered over the shallow sands in smears of paint that ran like tears.

Remember when you saw the trees,

Impassive in their bristling black circle,

And the imperial mountains with their unchanging gazes

And the eager lake that drank from your sadness

And the moon that hung over your head and watched you break,

When you realized that the darkness of the forest would not console you

And you needed something real.

Remember when I found you

And shielded you from the unfeeling world

Draped my wing across you and bent like a house

at you could breathe in.

When I leave,

Remember that night, remember how I held you

And let you cry.