Tag: Vol. 69

Here in Switzerland
the fountains on every corner remain  
burbling and bubbling their constant streams  
of fresh water from the corpses of dying glaciers. 

I stand, a silent statue atop one such fountain, 
staring, observing a pair, unblinking, to see 
a woman peering into the piddling pool 
as a man prattles on. 

She places a flask beneath the faucet 
I glare down from atop the spout empty with envy.  
Not full. 
Hungry.  

A ceramic child hangs from my mouth, still more 
spill out: wriggling, writhing from my satchel. 
How I wish I too could partake in the drink, 
clean, crisp, cool 

But I am content to share this moment, this shared meal 
with strangers who drink my mountain water  
raising ein Kind, a silent toast, to our kinship: 

May I one day partake in her drink 
& she in my cannibalism. 

A snake of self-doubt slithers, 
coiling through my thoughts,  
& whispers reminders  
of my worst moments,  
rendering me restless. 

Brain full of bees bouncing,  
bringing distraction  
like popcorn kernels popping  
against my skull’s interior 
as my focus fails. 

An angered cat paces my mind, 
arches her back  
like a Halloween decoration 
& blurts cruelties.  
Regrets follow realization, 
hackles lower. 

Sadness squeezes my heart, 
a sloth’s slow squishing embrace. 
I suffer a certain silent agony 
like a crushed coke can. 

The zoo in my head runs wild. 
My beloved returns all creatures to their cages 
for a time. 
How lucky I am to have found my zookeeper.

The black and white collar. Cigarettes. Whiskey.
Luden’s cherry cough drops.
On Wednesdays, they were lemon flavored.
The noise outside the confessional. The silence within it.
Muffled cries so ‘God wouldn’t hear’ a thing.
Or so he said.
Later, there were the looks. The stares.
The sympathy nods from those who recognized—
there were many who were aware.
And more who knew and did nothing. Said nothing.
Hear no evil. See no evil. Speak…
Fridays are now reserved for a reunion.
We share our scars.
We went to Catholic school
and survived. I still loathe the smell of Luden’s.

Fluffy white clouds 
Scattered as far as the eye can see. 
Will stepping into a foreign land 
bring you closer to home? 

Each rock, 
Each ivy, each moss 
Wet to the touch, 
Smelling of sweet earth 
Tempts you to stay. 

The pitter patter 
Of rain soaked rocks 
Are lightning bolts, 
Illuminations— footsteps. 
Lighting the path to the luscious grove, 
Den of lichen, 
Filled with soft chanting 
“Come away.” 

The pitter patter of rain 
Soaks your socks 
As you wade through the pool 
And become the one, 
Watching the next few 
Read their poems.

You’d leave yellow Post-It notes for me to find 
after your flight had carried you home— 
little love letters stuck on the inside of cabinet doors or 
nestled in kitchen drawers among spatulas and forks. 
One slipped off the shower wall and landed in the tub, 
a soggy, seven-word fantasy of the next time we’d fuck. 
One hidden in a copy of My Lesbian Husband; 
“This book,” you said, “Reminds me of us.” 
Another tenderly tucked into my bed, under a pillow, 
perfectly placed in the spot where my arm cradled your head. 
Weeks after you left for the last time, I stumbled upon  
a yellow landmine, unnoticed under a paperweight on my desk. 
Did you mean those three words the final time you wrote them 
or did you already know your feelings were flying away, too?

Winner of the Toni Morrison Day Creative Writing Contest 2026

On the corner of Railroad and Springwood Avenues 
a young woman stood unsteady 
her bare feet corroded in dirt, 
her white dress masked gray from smoke.  
Down the length of Springwood, the bitter sounds of alarms violated the air.  

The distant area was laid with a borage of voices:  
“Get off me Whitey!” a young boy shouted at a trooper in riot gear. 
“You gonna put my picture in the paper?” another mocked at a reporter. 
“Cover your ears, get in the car,” a young mother cooed in a faux-calm voice. 

Something echoed from a nearby store. 
A firecracker? 
Gunshot? 
Unknown.  

Casting frightened glances at the commotion around her,  
the woman in the white dress spoke to no one in particular: 
“I have to go down there. I have to find my son.”  

She helplessly approached a group of men assembled at the corner.  
“Take me down there. I need to find my son.”   
She looked away towards the street and shook her head.  
The men ignored her. 

She turned and walked north towards the tracks 
nervously wringing her hands,  
thoughts circling the unknown of tomorrow.

Winner of the Toni Morrison Day Creative Writing Contest 2026

We flaunt fragments forged in fire.
Censored shields guard our empty minds.
We lay siege with sentences.
Trebuchets sinners use to cast synonyms:
Coax, coerce, contort, constrain.
Control. We teach the plebs
Paradoxes, atrocious antonyms:
Armistice, amity, pacifism, pacification.

But will you pacify your infants so?
Lance their language? Helmet their hamartia?
In lieu, brandish ballades and parley with pantoums.
Exchange poems, not blows.
A legacy of literary devices, before your devised discord.