Poetry Summer 2018 fiction all issues
whitespacefiller
Cover Michael Lønfeldt
Carol Lischau
Son
& other poems
Noreen Ellis
Jesus Measured
& other poems
Amanda Moore
Learning to Surf
& other poems
Adin Zeviel Leavitt
Harvest
& other poems
Jim Pascual Agustin
Stay a Minute, the Light is Beautiful
& other poems
Timothy Walsh
The Wellfleet Oyster
& other poems
Anna Hernandez-French
Watermelon Love
& other poems
J. L. Grothe
Six Pregnancies
& other poems
Sue Fagalde Lick
Beauty Confesses
& other poems
Abby Johnson
Finding Yourself on Google Maps
& other poems
Marisa Silva-Dunbar
Frisson
& other poems
Merre Larkin
Sensing June
& other poems
Savannah Grant
Saint
& other poems
Andrew Kuhn
Plains Weather
& other poems
Catherine Wald
Against Aubade
& other poems
Joe Couillard
Like New Houses Settling
& other poems
Faleeha Hassan
In Nights of War
& other poems
Olivia Dorsey Peacock
Thelma: ii
& other poems
Sarah Louise
Tremors
& other poems
Kimberly Russo
Inherent Injustice
& other poems
Frannie Deckas
Child for Sale
& other poems
Jacqueline Schaalje
Mouthings
& other poems
Nancy Rakoczy
Her Face
& other poems
Ashton Vaughn
Contrition
& other poems
Ashton Vaughn
Sick As The Rose Water
Supple hands on skin
and a ripe tongue to
pluck the fruit from the tree.
Watch me as I fall like an apple
into the palm of the unsated,
into the hands
of the elated, the bored, and the triumphant.
Sickly sweet and
utterly intoxicating
like an odour of ammonia—
I remember that scent clinging to my skin
like some sort of glorified crown
with thorns that would surely prick the skin
and draw blood for all to see:
my sins on display for the world,
my sins on display for the world.
(They were mine, for I had claimed them.)
In this time of remembering,
I urge myself to recall those things
that got tangled in the thickets of my memories:
The milkweed with its woolen blooms; the purple blaze
of lavender that danced and bowed in the breeze; the
dandelions, who wandered not for the world, but for
their own enjoyment.
The mockingbird, who sang so that any passing traveller
may hear his sullen voice and rejoice in the song that
sorrow brings.
Contrition
I. There is a fire
that burns
riotously
through the night,
spindling up like
the fingers
of God
Himself.
His touch boasts
the gentleness
of a lamb,
soft and shorn.
II. “Make of yourself a light,”
said the Buddha
to the people
before he went off
and died.
III. “Into your hands
I commend my spirit,”
said Jesus to the people
as his soul
rose and shattered,
and, perhaps, rose again.
IV. God lives within us
the way that
A seed
lives in the ground.
Unseen, untouched by the world,
only to be awoken
by some
great and glorious rain—
let it rain down from the Heavens
a great and glorious storm.
V. May you find God in everything:
in yourself,
and in the daffodils, and in the
wry oakwood trees.
and also in the laughing lilt of
the raucous wind.
VI. May the fragile bird
of yourself
rise up,
and maybe, after all,
see things the way that they are.
Sugar
I. “I love you,
“I hope you know that I’m proud of you.”
II. The silver snake slithers in the grass—
black pearls for eyes and metal twist of a heart.
Young and assuming, the rabbit succumbs
to the thick rope of its body.
III. Do you remember the summer you locked me away?
I rarely saw the sun
and I couldn’t even read,
for all the books were stuffed
in the attic.
Oh, irony
when you made me pack up my own libraries
in boxes and crates
and
leave them behind for a summer.
IV. Neither of you knew, but I had some of the books
hidden
in a field just outside of our neighborhood.
A couple years ago they built a
house over that field.
V. There are many ways one can manage to live through
a storm.
When you starved me I rationed sugar
underneath my tongue
and I hid libraries out in the field,
and eventually, yes, the sugar melted and
the books burned,
but at least it kept me alive for the year.
Salt
I. “I love you,
“You know that I love you, right?”
II. Like the blue jay who nudges,
and then pushes
his young out of the nest
to fly
He was only teaching.
He was only loving.
Woe to the beloved blue jay,
weep for him who fell.
III. Do you think that change is always a good thing?
It would’ve been a good thing for you,
the way that you wanted me to change;
and it was a good thing for me,
the way that I had changed,
but where do you fit in?
Was it too much to grow out of that crack
in the sidewalk?
Are you still caged by the hard, the stone, the rugged?
IV. You come not to hurt,
you come not to change,
you come not to blame—
then why do you come?
V. I stole away sugar
and built again my fragile libraries,
but you,
you buried salt under your skin
and you held onto the books that you stole,
the books you would never read.
Still, There Is The Light
I.
Feel it circling
around you like a cloud
oh, what a sense of sadness
what a sense of dread
that washes over like a wave,
covers me like a shroud,
meant to wear to one’s grave—
let it adorn me like a silk offering,
let me wear it like crown.
And, still, at the center
there is the light.
II.
Who is that bird that sings
outside of my window?
Who is the one that trills
the song of the seasons?
You hurt me in ways, indescribable—
what is it to forgive?
How do you look at the same person
in a different light?
I can never tell when you have truly changed.
And, still, behind the silhouette.
there is the light.
III.
Midnight has come and gone.
I am not normal.
You are not either, though you will never say.
I know what you did.
I know who you are.
IV.
The thing about apologies is that they
don’t really mean anything if you keep
making the same mistakes
an apology for the same mistake
ten times over
is not truly an apology
but merely a test of patience
How much until you break?
How much until you cave?
When will you finally
shed your skin?
Somewhere—there is the light.
V.
Somewhere there is the light
that burns without the help of anyone.
It does not have to be told
to keep making light.
It does not have to be told
to love the world.
I hope someday to be like this.
I hope someday to forgive you.
Ashton Vaughn
is an upcoming senior at Thompson High School. He is a writer of fantasy and poetry, as well as music. When he’s not writing, he’s either reading, at school, or working at Chick-Fil-A. He has plans to attend an Ivy League university as an Environmental Science major.