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of summer 2020


elisa alexander

Elisa Alexander_Umbrella Photography.JPG

                                             Rain and the City

                                             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 wides 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

                                                                                                            –aaron min soo kang

Abby in the Sunlight with Flowers.jpg

abby in the sunlight with flowers

amanda barr

one quick round

ella filardi

one quick round.jpg
walk in the clouds.png

walk in the clouds

charlotte collins

To Walk Under Dappled Light


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.

-charlotte collins



marie senescall

wish you were here.png

wish you were here

charlotte collins

blue dock.jpg

blue dock

yugandhar bonde

The Wind

The marsh grass has greened

An osprey, I am convinced

The wind is time's breath

-jade fiorilla

beat your head against the wall / with just enough restraint


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.

-nina mouawad


event horizon

allison zheng




sophia petrucci

what are you looking at?

mirza nayeem

what are you looking at (question mark).


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.

-lauren goldberg



knock at the door

abhishek alhat

glass bottle

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 twists and twirl

               rapid rotations that revolves 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


-aaron min soo kang

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cdmx collage

cristina rodero

dont let go.jpeg


literary arts magazine

don't let go

mirza nayeem

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

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