Carolyn Lewis, Spring 2017
After "Deursches Eck" by Rebecca Farivar Where in the world can I find The center of gravity enough to make me Whole. For these heartbeats do not match the Body and my ears break to hear, A Great White, surfacing-- the whole ocean in his Mouth.
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Rich Millo, Spring 2017
I don't like coffee. All she brings are sleepless nights and rapid heart beats of anxiety. She's addicting. You'll get hooked and you'll believe that coffee is the only thing you need. She'll make you believe you have the energy to stay up. But truly, all she does is stain the innocent soul you have. You think coffee will make you feel warm. But all she will do is leave and empty promise of fake bliss. A cup of caffeinated pain. Next time you want a cup of coffee, remember the dependence. Don't fall under the trap again. Drink some tea instead. Rachel Harmon, Spring 2017
Don't blame me for my fear of drowning when nearly 71% of the Earth's surface is covered by water. Drinking the doctor-recommended 64 fluid ounces of water daily, I am drowning myself from the inside. Slowly killing myself in the name of fear. My insides are churned by seasickness-inducing currents, Pushed and pulled by my own tropical storms and tidal waves. I am not pristine waters. I am tsunamis and flash floods. Dropped pebbles do not send out even and photogenic ripples from my core. Instead, they land like metal tons and tombstones. I am not peaceful. I am irregular, unpredictable, moody, tragic, shaky, dramatic, unsteady. I am suffering, leaking, taking on water. I am breaking. I am a cargo ship destined to crash, A devestating shipwreck set on its fated course. I am meant to burn. I am meant to die. I am not the glamorous yacht coasting along the tropical spirits of the Bahamas. I am not the sailboat, peacefully wading in the still morning water, Patiently basking in natural glory. I am not you, them, him, her, whoever. I am suffering from my own sabotage. I have punched and kicked hole after hole into the bottom of my vessel. I see that I am on my way to drowning, But I kind of want to. I have tried flooding my anxiety, Waterboarding my suicidal desires, And sinking my entire way of being. But I'm still breathing, still afraid. Suffering, leaking, taking on water. I'm still the same. Alessandria Rhines, Spring 2017
All of the trees in Natchez, Mississippi are whispering at me. They tell me stories of sunshine and pain. Grandma teases and says if I linger too long they'll reach out and steal my name. they'll reach out and steal my name. my name. my name. my name. Of branches my limbs will become. And legs will shoot down into dirt. She sits at the kitchen table, legs pouring from underneath her. She says if they're whispering at me, it's because they can't help it—My body, reminds them of someone they knew. A person with sunshine grown in them. With skin so dark all it did was glow. But the names-- They cannot remember the names. I ask if it's because it was such a long time ago? She shutters her eyes with pity, long smells like yesterday. And sounds like cracking legs! And the snapping of angry mobs with pitchforks and smiling kids! Shouting a different name -- shouting a different name! Shouting a different something. The whispering has gone away. And Grandma with all her sunshine rises from the kitchen table—to walk across the floor. My talk of Natchez and whispers and trees my complaining of long winds snapping at me—has tired her. The sunshine has gone away. But moving her legs with purpose, she dances across the room. Whispering melodies of Sunday mornings. Conjuring all of their names Cordella, Marie, Emmit, Allen speaking names like speaking tongues. Pushing breath back into people. My eyes becoming sore from seeing. My lips grow chapped and numb all from, whispering As. She. Sang. I followed her gracious tune. I followed her out of the house & room to look long and hard at the trees. I planted my legs by the roots. And told her I would not move. She said sunshine You are the sway in the wind (that sunshine) that fills my lungs. These trees are on our side. I feel it in my legs. As long as you shall live, do not forget the names, so whenever a tree may ask, you can answer back —whispering | | the lynching trees |
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