POETRY
ISSUE 7
“Hands”
By Isabella Pesce
“What’s in a Name?”
By Kathryn Haig
She closes her eyes against
Crimson skin and a blushing thorn, soft
Petals unfolding in her palm, reaching for the sun but
Sagging under the weight
“A Third Family Member Dies In The Span of Two Months”
By Adam Petrosino
as the starving Ink-
Black Panther slinks,
a shadow, out from the under-
brush, Her growl like thunder
“Fragments”
by Amanda Wilbur
Fragmented Ideas
Floating in disconnect
A thought tries
To form
“70 Lines of a Life”
By Liliana Sosnowski
1. Say “mama”
2.Recognize grandma and grandpa
3.Know my name
4.Be mommy’s little helper
“My Look to the Future”
By Julie Dunn
I have to learn how to adjust
So many various things
My diet
My vitamin intake
“I am Done”
By Elle Lombardo
I am done
watering a garden
that only grows excuses.
Done translating my softness
“I Change“
By Mary Margaret Nugent
the channel
the station
the wallpaper
the curtains
“Fruitless Flame“
by Tiernan O’Rourke
The narrative of difficulty
Becomes the epitome
Of my journey and decisions.
An intervention is meant to be inspirational,
Yet why does mine seem demotivational?
“the death of winter“
by Melisa Santana
an endless field of ice-cold snow lay at
your feet, and excited as ever, you ran, jumped,
frolicked like the puppy you once were. an expanse
seemingly infinite, created just for you
“the dueling dinosaurs”
by Melisa Santana
whispers spread
of a discovery in hell creek:
ornithischian and theropod engraved in stone,
preparing to fight one another
“ode to the badyarikha cub ”
by Melisa Santana
time frozen from millennia ago, as though the ice
acted as a camera to capture a world otherwise
forgotten, without even stories whispered to keep it
alive. and within the permafrost, curled up with matted
fur was a cub.
“self-mutilation”
by Melisa Santana
another day of recalling a time i can’t seem
to let go of. i’ve tried forgetting, but all that does
is carve out fractured holes in which the thoughts
may flood and overtake the things that are
pure
“Riptide”
by Jessica Rossomando
Conversations are like a riptide.
The more people, the more currents;
The more currents, the more you're pulled in every direction;
The more directions you’re pulled in, the more disoriented you become;
The more disoriented you are, the harder it becomes to keep yourself afloat;
“In Between”
by Jessica Rossomando
Hearing?
No. Deaf?
No.
Something in between?
Maybe?
