Tag: Vol. 69

Winner of the Toni Morrison Day Creative Writing Contest 2026

She could’ve been my spouse
but she left me running after her.
She lived by the ocean, blue like her car.
I remember her pantry, how wonderfully it was organized
and the many recipes we made into reality.
Exercise was not her style,
lungs not the strongest,
so movies were the name of the game,
until I lost the plot.
Some called it a charity case
I, constantly pulling her in
as she pushed me away.
Allergies prevented a cat in her household
only dogs and hamsters,
the latter getting lost in her furniture.
Thrice she came to my dorm,
not an apartment, not a home,
her shadow still dwells regardless.
I shall not be the judge of her
and I wish she was not the judge of me,
it once took its toll on my health
until it grew bored of its captive.
When the night grows silent
I’ll look back through a telescope
a glimpse into the Dan who died,
left on the bridge between lives.
She no longer polices my existence,
my place, retired and empty
now filled anew,
as she finds a vacancy elsewhere.
I will not be in denial that it all happened.

▢ Ice breaker tablets for awkward family introductions
▢ Stainless steel trash can (with a lock) for all unwanted opinions
▢ Non-stick boundaries so you don’t say “Oh, it’s fine!” when it absolutely isn’t
▢ 4-6 ultra-absorbent bath towels to brainwash that cousin who didn’t get an invite
▢ Noise-cancelling curtains soundproof against whispers, gasps, and judgment
▢ Ninja knife extra sharp to cut out in-laws’ tongues
▢ 1-2 emergency carry-on bags to escape in case of emotional turbulence
▢ Self-cleaning patience dispenser that refills after every “But at my wedding…”
▢ Dyson vacuum to suck up every unnecessary thought keeping you up at night
▢ Aging-elixir maker to avoid inconvenient comments about marrying “too young”
▢ A timer that limits advice on dress fitting to 30 seconds or less
▢ 2-4 pillows to muffle people who insist on sharing divorce statistics before the big day
▢ Alarm clock loud enough to wake relatives stuck on traditional marriage rules
▢ A first-aid kit for hurt feelings of guests who forget the wedding isn’t about them
▢ Doorbell camera with setting Scare Away Mother-in-Law
▢ Cuisinart slow cooker for boiling down the idea that cooking skills define a good spouse
▢ KitchenAid blender industrial strength to purée anyone trying to plan your wedding for you

i am a writer! i shout this
while they show me my blank
journals, my hand naked
of any calluses.
no really, i am!

it is all in my head
somewhere
very, very far.

i am afraid
i have so much to say

there are clouds in my mind
terrible, terrible storms
when they clear
i can show you
the flowers.

yes the ink lies there on
the pages, you will see.

i am afraid
i have so much to say
and no one will ever hear it.

my pen haunts me.
it is cold here.

but you must believe me
i am a writer

maybe i will never be
one of the greats
surely the canon will
never include my name

but i am a writer.
i promise you
i think
no, i know
no, i just am.

Morning comes
without my permission.
Light rests its head on the counter.
It has learned to not disturb me.

I rinse my mug.
Yesterday thins,
slips down the sink drain,
which holds our silence
without spilling.

The room remembers you
in small ways.
Your chair is angled slightly away,
the air still shaped like a pause.

Grief is a clean, smooth surface.
I don’t know what to set down.

Outside, a neighbor waters their plants
cautiously,
as if they’ve learned that
too much care can drown a thing.

I relearn the weight of my hands again,
and how they answer
to only me now.

Her voice was like a pearl:
smooth, rich texture, though bumpy
as she ran over her runs.
A rush of water over a rocky shore
even between the cracks.

A voice of flowing silk,
she rippled her notes,
her breath streaming
underneath, over,
and over, and over.
Rolling in beaded balls of vibrato
into the thread of song,
clicking together elegantly,
castanets in flamenco songs.

Her pearl glimmered across the rough stage,
a soft sight to the ears and eyes,
taking on many hues in the light:
aquamarine, peony pink, shimmering gray.
It colored the stage,
Making the awe-struck audience unable to look away.
As she finished, they began to roar,
but all she gave was a meek round of bows.
Her pearl—a humble gem,
only shown when she opened her mouth,
hidden to preserve the beauty inside.

Grief is a house with the lights left on,
rooms hum with names no one answers,
walls murmur like prayers gone wrong.
I walk these halls barefoot on broken hours,
treading over memories that still breathe
each step waking something that refuses to die.
Death is a shadow sewn beneath my skin,
it grows teeth where hope used to rest,
stitched to my spine, stretching longer with every goodbye.

A raven crowns the roof of my ribs,
black-winged and watching,
beak tapping like a clock I can’t silence,
its wings folded around every unsaid word,
its hunger split across what’s already gone.
It does not fly away.
It stays.

Like a sentinel on the ruined house of my chest,
counting the heartbeats,
teaching the ache how to speak in my voice,
watching over the rooms love once lived in.
Where laughter still hangs like dust in the light,
it still guards what remains:
the quiet furniture of memory,
the hollow doorways of your name.

The coolness sets in,
and sunlight turns fleeting.
The emissions of fall
stifle my growth,
keep me inside—
a relentless hibernation.

New chemicals
artificially alter my psyche.
I see no benefit on the horizon—
I continue anyway.

Are the palpitations
worth the outcome?

The wind whips unapologetically,
disrupting the peace.
The integrity of the trees is tested—
leaves not quite weak enough
to give up.

Do the birds appreciate
the extra push,
or do they dread
the loss of control?

Seeds and grain fall
to the forest floor,
their final moments scattered,
picked up beak by beak.

Has the groundhog
sensed the season’s change?

I have fed him,
but have not seen him.

Perhaps
he prepares
for his own hibernation.

It is a dream to receive everything I’ve wanted.
So, why do I return to this,
the feeling that it is a sin to be loved?
I stand between these parallel worlds:
one where trees are rooted,
the other where butterflies roam.
My spirit aches to cross the periphery,
where my heart can feel what cannot be seen.

Such is the predicament of a poet:
the desire to live among the gods.
Does such a place exist—
to speak a language few could understand?
To express image in sound and details—
folk tales manifested in truth.
Or do I abandon the chance at living a normal life—
starving on the loss of my future
while I daydream?

To receive, with empty hands,
I walk this solid ground.
Remind me again why I shall not grieve this life:
one that is fleeting, temporal,
where logic prevails over madness.
Sing to me myths that illustrate human tears.
Exhume these ruins shrouded under plastic and greens,
a material world threatened by its own finitude,
its antithesis—the lovers who reside beyond Eden
make pleasure last for eternity.

Twin flame, undead, I summon your name,
spelled with lavender and jimsonweed.
No more contemplating fictions between
romance and reason, but breathing words—
plaguing me with your unearthly presence.
Seduce me with stories that bleed,
slipping through arteries, wrapped in telepathy,
as I wander back to the vampires.

to be like a modern Joan of Arc, but I
just spent €500 at the Aran Sweater
Market. You can identify me at sea by
fisherman’s ropes, diamond island-
tilled fields, trellised stone walls
aplenty, zig zagging marriage lines,
and Irish moss knit—fertile seaweed—
as nature, unchaste. I’m armored with
patterns of past lovers and new
investments in wool that will last a
lifetime. My old self, untarnished,
steel-clad, wore the burnished gorget,
crimped edges warding abroad the
errant lips and teeth of strangers, I
articulated clinking joints of gauntlets
to claw away heart-piercers, and I
fastened leather straps of pauldrons’
peaked plates to shoulder black magic
bolts. Now, hexes hit me dead-on, no
armor to martyr-maid me, just wool,
and the knowledge of a salmon burn.
We were never meant
to see our reflection in steel. From
our canvas currach, we gaze as
Narcissus in the raging ocean and
sort out the self from the noise. The
cuirass I own is outgrowing me. A
gambeson could fit, but wool
sweaters are more my speed. These
days, I want my heart exposed.