POETRY
CATEGORY WINNER
"Loving Colors"
by Julia Wheelehan
Loving a girl is pink. It’s pink satin sheets,
Pulled up to the chest. It’s tanned feet and
Pink toes wadding over smooth skipping
Stones in clear water. It’s soft long hair, tied
Up with a pink bow and arms wrapped in pink
Gauze. It’s gentle and loving, thumbs brushing
Over sticky, pink lip gloss. It’s looking up
Through full lashes, pink glitter sparkling.
Loving a boy is green. It’s running barefoot
Through grassfields as the moon dances
Between stratus clouds. It’s sharing apple
Slices—green and sweetly sour. It’s sunlight
Streaming through patches of leaves, each
Green and the size of a hat. It’s fumbling
Hands, breathless and eager, tumbling Between
green checkered sheets
Loving a woman is blue. It’s fresh iris
Flowers in cups that double as vases. It’s
Cliff jumping into crystalline blue waters,
Wind whipping my hair around. It’s cloud
Watching on spring afternoons, the blue
Sky matching my eyes. It’s a line of blue
Texts getting sent in the morning. It’s
Matching nails after a spa day and
Watching wild waves crash onto cliffs.
Loving a man is red. It’s red lip marks
On shirt collars. It’s empty bottles of
Merlot, leaving circles on oak tables.
Nights of scratches on a back with beads
Of blood left behind. It’s crushed velvet
Dresses, trailing over freshly fallen snow.
Dozens roses crushed under dress shoes and
The weight of broken promises. It’s Open
boxes of scarlet lingerie.
Loving myself is orange. It’s a slice of a
Tart tangerine and ripe peach. Dancing on
Halloween by bonfires. It’s watching the
Sun set, the light bronzing everything. It’s
Hands wrapping around fading stretch
Marks with careful apathy. It’s looking
At rusting cars and crumbling sunflowers
Through windows. A warning: good god, stay away
Loving myself is white. It’s blindingly
Bright and brilliant—the midday sun
Streaking in through the blinds, right
Into my eyes. It’s rotting and empty,
Each breath a burden, Atlas and all
His weight on my chest. It’s the perfect
Marble columns, thin veins of gold and
A loving goddess carved at the top. It’s
A clean white slate—ready for ruinous creation.
"A Butterfly Devoured the Lake and Left You in the Crater"
by Flora Soper
There were bodies in the lake with us,
Floating with their watermelon heads ajar.
One was tethered to your hand,
Her face made of white ravens.
I looked too close and caught my
reflection in her skin.
You were feeding a straw dog an island.
He had the orange, English sunrise in his eyes.
A constellation swam at your feet and
Purple Hyacinths bled to the surface—
They swallowed me whole.
I created a mountain in my place and
Trapped you in a labyrinth sky.
We were in the wrong house
And the TV was breathing in static.
A butterfly devoured the lake and left you in the crater.
The dog choked and you fed it wallpaper instead.
I counted the diamond dust in the curtains.
"Life's Too Short"
by Jenna Moscaritolo
So playful and so pure,
I watched my baby boy,
with permanent grass-stained knees,
from my new rocking chair powered by the wind.
He’d pick me the most offensive of flowers
to add to his mediocre collection.
He’d even bring them with
a pot of life and
a glacier of hope.
​
So innocent and so naïve,
I watched my flourishing boy
with focused eyes on the screen,
from the dusty rocking chair pushed by my legs.
I wondered if he grasped the burden of death
but he’d just brag about his skillful numbers.
I’m not sure how he learned those curse words,
but I can taste his violent wrath
clawing at his bedroom door.
​
So vacant and so silent,
our house has never been so still.
I stare lifelessly at a stain on the carpet
from the carcass of my baby’s console
from my crippled rocking chair
that tremors from the pounding of my heart.
I ache as I hear hollow profanities echo from his room
and imagine which flower he would have chosen next.
"Sexy"
by Sabrina Cabrera Rivera
I look young in my years
As I wave my identity
Para presentar mi vida
Yet it goes triple checked
With a seven second stare
No tengo la gana
They tell me, “Que soy tan linda.”
Con mi ojos brown
And mi cachetóna face
Pretty gets thrown to the dogs
Bonito es un abrazo tan rico
No me digas sexy
To the tall and desperate ‘gentlemen’
Oh yes sir, I am speaking to you
You, who decides to grace me
With
His
Presence
Give me your synthetic words
All painted nice and fancy
Habla mucho mierda
“You’re intimidating,” ellos dicen.
A mi five foot four stature.
Act dumb
Hacer un show
No one will notice the degree
As long as you are pretty
"Obscura"
by Sabrina Cabrera Rivera
Have you heard of this new contraption?
It’s on the rage!
Of a grand hotel.
It captures your image
Takes a little piece of your soul too.
“A mini time machine!” they say.
For the old broken mind of course.
Then swallow the sands of time
Take another shot.
Get drunk off the single pause
​
The future goes on
Not a single goodbye
The sound of
The grandfather clock echoes
Once upon a time
Ladies wore gowns
That sparkled of stars at
The hem of their skirts.
Gentlemen wore a tie
To compliment their charm.
Had evaporated
To the dust on the windowsill
Preparing to be swept away
Another box in the attic.
First breathe in
The crystal glass of lost memories
One look into her eyes
Get turned into stone
Endless music
Dances
Stolen kisses
countless affairs
In the empty space
"Those God'damn Tulips"
by Courtney Foth
I’m done with
every pretty thing.
A caster’s glitter pink noose round my neck, let it drop,
and plunge another ring through my nose. I want
a flower’s outwardness, no, its stem. All the sticky prickles
I’m loose, and alive to what I like, bruised apples and blank
boxes, trashy love
This horny skin beckons; yes, I’m the frog’s first.
My button-eyed, goat-backed, meat-faced, slaver-lipped,
Prehensile, irrelevant virgin. You’re dry—eat some sin,
it’s good for that.
Fuck, I need another needle.
let me drown, then feed me, then stretch my skin until pretty again
yeah right? The edges eat me just the same
Only the desperate really survive, good thing that, I’d be just another
dirty rock. Idiotic, you’d think, to clean a rock—don’t try it.
I can’t laugh.
I’ll joke with the dead. They’ll share my eyes: no more tulips,
no more stupid dreams, no more slant hopes. Just straw for fire, intentional curses, and lavendar
Decrees are final when they’re made with worms.
Fingers squirm like them, and wriggle impatience, let me be
let me be without your beauty. I don’t need it, pretty, what?
Lipping a stone, and calling it a rose; how dumb, it’s a god’damn stone
You summer stallions with soft honey hair, run away.
There is nothing here for you, for me.
I would be out: you want me in…
well, stick it.
​
​
This is a found poem based from Straw For The Fire, a string of poems from the notebooks of Theordore Roethke.
"Indigenous Woman"
by Alyscia Quichocho
Sweet girl, do not apologize for the accent
your tongue carries for it is thick and sweet like honey.
Foreign ears may not know the meaning of the music
your mouth orchestrates, but do not let that stop you
from singing loudly – your voice is the vessel
of your ancestors.
The color of your skin is not your enemy,
nor your curse–it is your story.
The story that began
when god chose to take time to paint the canvas
of your curved body. Melanin fused with strength and resilience
not even the brightest star in our galaxy could pierce.
When oppression and colonization sought to silence you,
your brown skin illustrated the story your mouth could not speak.
Your back may not bear the garments your ancestors once did,
but you are adorned with the customs and culture of all those who came before you
"The Best Cake Repice Ever"
by Tatiana Miranda
Earthenware, glaze, resin, matte oil paint, synthetic hair,
weaved material, found objects, fabric wooden beads.
Chastity Williams sculpts, bakes a female face.
Lips coated with glaze, shiny; spit coating them.
Stretched wide, hungry for something in the distance.
Ecstasy in her eyes; rolled back, back. Back!
Skin flushed champagne pink. Vibrant rouge smeared across
her cheeks. Infection scattered like sprinkles.
Gray, white, glazed, matte.
A pox? A plague?
The plague consumes.
Hidden in hair, a barren filling, and
a cracked mind, unseen to the partygoers.
Elaborate décor to distract them.
Strands intricately woven, reminiscent of a beheaded queen.
“Let them eat cake!”
It tempts her, inches away from her mouth.
Sticky, sweet. Mouth watering with the thought of a taste.
What is it that she longs for? A cure? A slice? New
jewelry and adornments for her hair?
Singular braid wrapped with ribbons and knick-knacks.
A stolen relic from the Wisconsin Indians.
Titled “Heart Heat 1.” The heat of her heart was
350 Fahrenheit, as Betty Crocker had instructed.
I take a bite of her skin, clay coating
my tongue. Glaze cracking between human teeth.