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summer 2020

Elisa Alexander_Umbrella Photography.JPG


Elisa Alexander

                     Rain and the City

                     Aaron Min Soo Kang

                     The building piles upon like glass prisms that

                     blur secrets of their decay. 

                     The fog coats the glass panes of the window sill

                     A lamp post throws itself with its

                                                                        flickering lights

                     like a beggar scouring the floor for a 

                                                                        coin just


                     the rain shuffles like the pages of a textbook

                     a man with eyes wide open, gaze of a fish and arms of a

dead tree

                                                               in the middle of the street

                     the avenue stretches its limbs reaching for the sun and

wraps its

                     edges around the corner of the facades

                     In a lonely alcove, a child with her mother exits the supermarket with


                     enough to spare for the bus ride home, another


                     onto his mother's wrist and

                                                               sinks his rainboot in the puddle only

until time


                     In the mother's mind, scars still linger, fanning out

                                          just like a building with b r o k e n pipes


Abby in the Sunlight with Flowers

Amanda Barr

To Walk Under Dappled Light

Charlotte Collins


Dappled light on forested floor.

Leaves green, yellow,

Red on the tips of branches.

New growth peeking out into

Shrouded surroundings.

Dappled light, delicate and dancing.

I, too, feel delicate.

I want to dance right here,

Right now.

Throw off my shoes and feel the softness of dirt,

The hard wood of slithering roots,

The gentle poking of pine needles.

I want to sing to the trees,

And tell them I love them,

And I think I’ve fallen in love,

And I don’t know what to do about it

Except sing,

Or write,

Or cry.

Instead, I reach out and touch

The peeling crinkle of birchbark.

I put my arms around the tree,

Rest my cheek.

I think if I wait long enough,

I might feel a heartbeat

Somewhere deep within

The birch’s chest.

The steady beating of a slumbering giant.

Mother Nature resting below,

Giving us this peace of the restful,

This wonder that only comes in dreams.

I hope to sleepwalk always, beneath the trees.

And in my dreams, I will dance

And sing

And remember this love that I feel,


In the deepest part of my chest,

The place I keep hidden the furthest away.

This elusive light has found its way inside me.

This feeling I’ve yearned for my whole life

Is here,


There are parts of me that have been awakened.

Parts that I didn’t realize were resting,


Folded small within myself,



I feel the kiss of bark on my face,

The gentle summer breeze on my back,

This Earth, solid beneath my feet.

I kiss the tree.

(my love, my light)

I take a step back

Through the dappled light.

(I imagine I can feel it on my skin,

Soft, angelic)

And I continue on

Through this dream day

In this dream life

Of mine.

one quick round.jpg


ella filardi

blue dock.jpg

The Wind 

Jade Fiorilla

The marsh grass has greened

An osprey, I am convinced

The wind is time's breath

Blue Dock

Yugandhar Bonde


sophia petrucci


beat your head against the wall / with just enough restraint

Nina Mouawad


There are nights, and then
there are nights.


Gnawing on fingertips in throat-burning snow
keeps me from swallowing the moons
of nails. I haven’t stopped biting (rip)
because of contrast I’ve been taught is too natural
to exist, like rose-fingered sunsets (rip)
too weak to flicker off now-dirty snow.
Just the gnawing for less color,
the smothering
of white that brims with the memories of
sick winter nights, inhaling the aroma of rose water
that her pearl-lacquered fingers kneaded into shoulder
blades. Lying down, hipbones jut out like a startled butterfly
with scales left by jagged nails (rip).
The peach curtains pale in the dark cabin,
half-closed and limp in the frost-covered windows

But after the setting, I remember.
Some contrast is too natural.


Someday soon, I will plunge from a cliff somewhere
staring face-up into the dimming areola of the sun:
kiss me goodnight, darling, goodnight.

Event Horizon

Allison Zheng

glass bottle

Aaron Min Soo Kang

the chimes of golden bells

               like the two glass bottles

early morning fog

               droplets of anxiety

echoes of laughter

               noticeable lined curves

the scent of the flint of its skin

               bottle caps that resemble 

chinese checker board pieces

               He's Been Crowned

the innocent transparency of its shape and the

               tunes that play in every contact they make

criss cross patterns that twist and twirl

               rapid rotations that revolve in between

each other, rolling and the unexpected falling

               sudden breaks of

shattering distinct polygons and 

               secrets that scatter

every unique shard, 

               serrated and blunt, 

sharp edges and tangent arcs and curves

               bulky depth and scanty corners


CristinaRodero_CDMX collage.jpg

CDMX Collage

Cristina Rodero



Marie Senescall

wish you were here.png

Wish You Were Here

Charlotte Collins


Knock at the Door

Abhishek Alhat

what are you looking at (question mark).


Lauren Goldberg

A demand for change and action
One unified voice
Made up of thousands of individuals.
They are anything but quiet.

Rallies and protests spread like a pandemic
Crowds of mask-wearing demonstrators holding up signs

We are not animals. We are human beings.
When people are being killed on the streets,
It’s simply too important to stay home.

New York or San Francisco

Different places with the same old problems.

Young Black men leave home,

Not knowing whether they'll return alive.


A routine march to work
Could spell the end of his life
He deserves to live longer.

Stop killing our children. Stop killing our civil rights.

Long-overdue is an uncomfortable conversation.
Question me.
Question my friends.
Question America.

What Are You Looking At?

Mirza Nayeem


literary arts magazine

Editor in Chief Jade Fiorilla               Creative Director Dana Saltz                Secretary Lily Weber                Advertising Manager Sabrina Ruiz

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