Franklin Cruz
Our faith is buried under watered down roots,
Mary mother Guadalupe is floating to us in
hymns and prayers.
I used to carry a bible with me until it was washed with
unsanctified holy water,
(the priest had his hand too deep into temptation),
and his sermons became hollow and meaningless,
drowning in the impurities of church’s children.
Divinity is no longer a word among children
they care too much for sex and sins
and drink it down with vodka shots,
wrapping them in paper torn from a diminishing hope,
they are too ashamed to listen and see the swishing.
My words are chained down by pop culture influences,
linked with fainting whispers of god, and growing tales of Michael Jackson.
His death tore as many people away from their lives as Karol Józef Wojtyła;
his tears are saved in chasers because the gin’s always too strong.
I am not a member of churches because they are so frail to come to terms
with the long departed absence of god,
they are proud beyond mountains
and hold to fallacies like lies on warring riverbeds battles.
-Franklin Cruz
Emily Heinz
shot of a wishing well
shrouded –
the scent of warm pressed corn,
table salt,
mineral saturated water
spilling from a grey stone fountain.
the reserves collect in its pool, its floor
tiled with foreign silver coins,
the bottom visible through the holes in their centers.
above –
clusters of brown bats like grape-bunches,
their sleeping shade from the overhang
incubated by the in-pour of sunlight.
-Emily Heinz
Leah Kuehn
Driven vicious and mad
in war---
like dogs---
to never sleep a night of their life
in peace again.
And when senility comes
creeping up to the peep-hole
they accept it with torment
rather than softness.
Their memories are only partial
of love, safety,
family: children, wives, youth---
but in completion
there are bombs
and guns and dust
---gasoline,
gunpowder, sulfur
and death---
and the smell of men’s blood
and the taste of men’s blood
Leah Kuehn
Emily Boldt
The two men sat
at the great wood table
the room about them aglow.
They chuckled and laughed
talking together,
awaiting their glorious meal.
And soon the food came
piled high on the platters
balanced perilously by
the nameless servers.
The two licked their chops
and rubbed their hands greedily
as the wonderful smells
promised a fantastic meal
they never would forget.
The first man began,
stuffing it all in at once,
crumbs falling onto his beard.
Great handfuls he took,
using no fork,
forcing them into his mouth.
His eyes lit up
as he continued to eat
each bite increasing his craving.
His companion, however
was unusually thin
his skin stretched tight over bones.
He picked up his fork
and daintily placed
the tiniest of bites in his mouth.
He smiled with joy,
the taste was incredible,
yet his bites became no more rapid.
In fact as he ate
he moved slower and slower,
lifting the fork was an effort.
The two men continued,
one gorging himself
while the other merely
picked at his food.
but the scrumptious food
soon took its toll
and the men began to change.
The fat man grew
and grew and grew
until he was spilling over his chair.
With a groan it collapsed
but the man had disappeared.
Instead upon the floor sat a
squealing pig
gravy still smeared on its mouth.
The thin man looked with shock
at this strange metamorphosis,
but he didn't have long to wait.
He began to shrink,
thinner and thinner,
till he vanished all together.
All that was left of this light,
picky eater was a small
gnat floating above his chair.
Emily Boldt
Kyle Bosket
You,
who saw the stars for what they were,
listened to the satyrs’ song,
traced the moon across the sky.
I hear you in the sun
for the deities still sing of you,
praise you,
love you.
You,
who told their stories.
-kyle bosket
Cristina Peña
I have found love
in the small, delicate bird
of your heartbeat.
Is it strange
to have discovered
the human in you is breathing too?
I wonder if
you were to read this
and understand
my meaning,
would that mean something
to you?
We are both made
out of three primary colors
red, yellow, blue
sun, moon, and the stars
we are dancing
in our own light.
We are blind,
but we hear so much music.
Does the bird
in your chest
sing for the ocean?
Because I do.
Do your lungs
breathe thick
and salty
like mine?
Does the cavity
in your stomach
ache
for something more?
Because I do.
I ache for flowers
red, yellow, blue
and for constellations
telling us to fall in love.
I wonder
if the clay we were sculpted from
was instead a song
would you sing of me?
If we were trees,
would our branches intertwine
like we still believed
life is random?
Cristina Peña
Domenic Rubio
Empty Words
I met a man whose smile cracked at the corners and shattered when he laughed.
I helped him pick up the pieces from the sidewalk
They were sharp and cut my fingers,
but he thanked me all the same as we re-assembled his lips.
I remember the shimmering lies that danced through his hair and onto his crisp white shirt,
filling the otherwise blank creases
with black lines that looked like stripes if you took a step back, or two.
If you looked closer you could see they were not stripes, but empty words whispered in darkness to countless beautiful lovers.
Once he told her she was beautiful,
but that felt empty too.
He didn't walk, he floated and the tiny black hands on his inexpensive wristwatch spun faster than I could keep up with.
He was sleek and shiny, like a penny that wouldn't fit in my pocket.
I think his eyes were green,
but I can't remember.
-Domenic Rubio
Becca Gallegos
the summer was hot
and ran like a river.
he watched from his brown stone window
and waved to Dorothy,
the old, freckled woman across the street with poppies resting
on the brim of her hat
dog days
dog days
Fresh Prince and DJ Jazzy Jeff on the radio
“summer, summer, summer time”
water guns, yellow and green plastic,
shot surges of coldwet from the barrel.
a young man stood with his arms spread
to the left and right
his chest a wall.
absorbing the shots with his mouth wide open
he shook his head and yelled
“Thank God!”
-Becca Gallegos
Gracie Novotny
Mujer
America, shut your swollen lips, you are battered and abused,
used like graphite pencils.
Your spindly fingers crushed under the weight of your children.
America, close your bruised eyes, so you cannot see what you have become.
Your stretch marks and sidewalks wrap tightly around your hips,
pink and raised all across your skin. I’ll touch you, read you like braille as your silent tears spill into the sea, the salt from your eyes sits screaming in your wounds, in the hollow valleys and scars at your wrists.
And the men they climb your mountain ranges, digging their boots deep into your flesh. They hold your breasts, their fingers warm on your body
and you lay still, like a woman must.
I can feel you breathing American. I can hear your heart as it slows under my feet.
Stop screaming America, let the blood at your lips harden and flake away.
—Gracie Novotny
Dela Fyfe
Undeniable
I don’t write words
powerful enough to flow through
your ears and arrive at your soul.
I don’t play the keys to awaken
your senses, arise through your veins
and rest in your lungs.
I don’t speak the elegance
of angst and frustration,
giving birth to tears of truth.
I move to the rhythm of the kick drum.
Find meaning in every pattern of breath.
Express your words, your notes, your stories
through the undeniable and unmatched
honesty of the human body.
The lines of my legs match
the strings of your violin.
Hearts beat faster and though
you can’t hear it, I hope you feel it.
You write words strong enough to make me move.
You play notes in such a beat that my body takes over.
You speak with such passion that my
muscles twitch with every pump of blood.
My only hope is to move enough
to undeniably move you.