Category Archives: Poetry

Kay Mancino

Plaything

We were once six, and then seven, and

then nineteen. We blink and

it’s Christmas. Already, it’s

snowing. Already, it’s too frigid

to prance outside naked. We feel

the wind bite down

on the parts of ourselves we despise

but want so badly to love

that we bear them to each other

anyway. We stare into the reflections

of us that wear a different face

but weep all the same.

One year ago, I did not know him.

Ten years ago, I knew her so well.

I ask him what song he listens to

after he argues with his father and

she tells me she likes the private sound

of her own heartbeat best,

the rain piercing her skin,

the pricking of a sewing needle,

the harvesting of a home in her ribcage.

It calls to me, then, in a quiet voice,

it happened to me, too.

I hold my ear to his chest

and take in all the worship.


Kay Mancino is a creative writing major pursuing her undergraduate degree at SUNY Purchase. Her short fiction and poetry have been published in several magazines such as Italics Mine, Sandpiper Review, and Submissions Magazine. In her spare time, she crochets and hangs out with her professor’s fifteen-year-old dog, Willa.

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Mollie McMullan

Lethal

Carol Jean melts into the bed,

a symphony of flesh and bone.

Shadow falters at the sight of her

but advances nevertheless.

In the valley between pillow and sheet, my mother reaches

into the hollow of Carol Jean and remembers

the way she loved her husband.

How she scooped up the moon in soap-cracked palms and

served it for dinner.

How she scrawled her will on watercolor paper and played

Fur Elise on Beethoven’s birthday.

The way she knit hats through the knobs of her fingers

for her grandchildren.

Her memory is interrupted by others,

the edge of a screwdriver down an esophagus.

An ambulance,

morphine’s embrace,

the blink of an eye: a camera.

She suffocates under linen:

respiration betrayal.

In an orthopedic bed, Carol Jean is dressed in her favorite shirt and given back her glasses.

She will have no watch.


Mollie McMullan is a junior at SUNY Geneseo. In her spare time, she enjoys chasing her dog around in circles and cutting up magazines for collages she’ll never complete.

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Elianiz Torres

as mother’s flowers rot

Mother was born from a garden of greens. Just as the woman who came before her.

Her mother’s delicate fingers danced over every flower petal, breathing life into them with each despairing sigh.

Day in and day out she’d watch her watch them.

Wondering why she was the only one that ever held them.

Your father is allergic. She lied.

He simply hated the smell of them.

She took it upon herself to continue the garden.

She learned how to tend to them,

day in and day out she went with her mother.

She learned to dance her fingertips along their edges delicately.

When she was done, she learned to wash the dirt from her knees.

She learned to be careful—to keep their scent off her

like the scent of a forbidden lover.

She watched the way his hatred for the garden grew.

Watched the way he beat her sister when she was reckless

when she forgot to wash off the dirt

when she let their scent intoxicate her,

blindly strengthen her.

He reminded them who was strongest

with scars that matched his

day in and day out.

Until they all stopped tending,

until one turned to two,

two to three

years in the same

flowerless

weed ridden home.

After he died they put flowers over his casket.

Mom didn’t touch them, she didn’t even look.

When the condolences hit her doorstep,

wedged between dozens of flowery buds

she let every petal fall.

Let them wither in their own solitude.

The way she learned to,

the way he taught her to.

Just as the woman before her did

day in and day out.

My sister didn’t understand,

Mother’s allergic too. I lied.

Just like grandpa.


Elianiz Torres is a junior English (creative writing) major at SUNY Geneseo. She started writing fiction in middle school and has since discovered a love for poetry. Her writing often focuses on themes of family and womanhood.

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Kay Mancino

I drop baby teeth

the same way I lose friends

and lovers and children,

shut surface opens when

bitterness stretches out

my gums. Gross pieces replaced,

shifted, loosened, twisted,

yanked by a skinny string. Bodies

regrow when I sleep. Mothers

sink down to babies. Clauses

die, commas give birth

to things final.

It feels

final—

the holding, the drifting, the dying.

The feeling

of a ghost resting

beneath my tongue.


Kay Mancino is a creative writing major pursuing her undergraduate degree at SUNY Purchase. Her short fiction and poetry have been published in several magazines such as Italics Mine, Sandpiper Review, and Submissions Magazine. In her spare time, she crochets and hangs out with her professor’s fifteen-year-old dog, Willa.

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Kendall Cruise

An Ode to the Not-Me

I imagine she drives with the sunroof

open. That she slams

the pedals of a hippie van. That she

lives in a house that has a blue ground

floor, but a yellow second. That they are

separated by swirling, scalloped trim.

Her office would double

as a plant nursery that

the cats are not allowed

in. Oh yes, she has cats, two of them,

one for each dog, and a snake, who

curls around the arm like one would hug.

In this dreamscape, this would

not cause her to have to

take so much Allegra.

In her journals, she imagines

my roads; wonders at what speed

I am racing towards her. Analyzes

her face in the mirror, tries

to discern her age. Wonders—

how much longer must she wait?

When decorating, she would

believe in maximalism, pattern-mixing,

bright colors, that are complimentary or

otherwise. In this world, she can have

lots of things while only being

messy in a purposeful way that is pleasing to the eye.

That anytime she hears the birds chirp

outside, she chooses to eat on her porch

over poetry. She would spend too much

time mowing the yard, lost in thought. But

tells herself that this time is required

when the delicacy of a garden, the ancientness

of a tree is considered. Pretends

she does not have to catch

her breath at the thought

of a flat tire. I think she

goes to bed before eleven and

falls asleep in the first fifteen minutes.

In her slumber, she always dreams.

Dreams,

that I don’t miss—

the turn.


Kendall Cruise is a junior English (creative writing) and adolescence education major at SUNY Geneseo. When not obsessively revising their latest piece of writing, she can be found constructing hyper-specific playlists or on The Sims. They are a section editor for their college’s newspaper, The Lamron, and have been previously published in Gandy Dancer and Iris Magazine.

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Mollie McMullan

Boiling Over

On my father’s birthday, my mother

and I buy a lobster for dinner at the grocery store.

During the drive home, we name her Sheila,

coo at the way she wriggles in the plastic.

My mother tells me how awful it is every year,

boiling something while it’s still moving;

(“you don’t realize you’re boiling until it’s too late”).

We free Sheila from her bands,

saw at them with my mother’s car keys,

and toss her into the Sound.

I console my mother when Sheila is released,

telling her he’s gonna have to suck it up,

be the grown man he pretends to be.

We hold hands in the driveway,

giggle through the side door,

silence when my father appears in the kitchen.

He has the stove on, and when he looks at my mother,

I am reminded of the way a lion knows of the

tenderness of a gazelle’s flesh.


Mollie McMullan is a junior at SUNY Geneseo. In her spare time, she enjoys chasing her dog around in circles and cutting up magazines for collages she’ll never complete.

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Megan Moran

Duo

¡Bienvenido!

Welcome to senior year

and welcome to

something else to stress you out.

Welcome to Duolingo.

¿Cómo estás?

How are you doing?

In your classes and in your

Spanish lessons?

Duo is disappointed.

Your parents are disappointed.

You aren’t getting into college.

But anyways,

how are applications going?

¿Cuántos años tiene?

How old are you again?

Last time you checked,

you were sixteen. How are you

an adult already?

Where did the time go?

124 day streak. How

have you been learning

Spanish for half a year?

How old will you be when you

get your acceptance letter?

¿Quién es tu amigo?

Who’s your friend?

And who hates you?

It’s really hard to tell lately.

High school is stupid.

Duolingo is stupid.

You can’t wait until college

when you don’t have to ask

who your friends are.

¿Cómo está el clima?

What’s the weather like?

Hot. Pretty normal

for summer.

Lots of rain.

You’re told it’s going to snow

a lot when you’re Upstate.

You’ve never been Upstate.

You also hear there are lots

of owls. You don’t

want to think about

Duolingo.

You wonder some more

about the weather.

¿Cuál es tu color favorito?

What’s your favorite color?

It’s an easy question.

So, why can’t you answer?

It’s just an ice breaker for the first day.

Just pick a color,

any color.

Say green. Like

that stupid owl.

It haunts you.

Green is not your favorite color.

Eres un estudiante de primer año.

You are a freshman.

Everybody knows it

and they all

hate you for it. Except

the other freshmen.

They are just like you.

But they don’t have a

348 day streak.

Because, after all,

they’re only freshmen.

No hablas con nadie.

You don’t speak to anyone.

No one but

that stupid owl,

the collection of

stupid pixels

that harasses you

to learn Spanish.

Maybe if you do

your lessons, you will

know another language

that you won’t

speak to anyone in.

¿Cuándo estarás bien?

When will you be okay?

Day 365?

Day 416?

Day 573?

You don’t know

a lot of things.

You still feel

like you don’t

know Spanish.

All you know is

that now,

on day 639,

you’re doing

better. So

maybe two years

is when you will,

finally,

feel okay.

Dar gracias.

Give thanks

to Duolingo

for giving you

consistency

and your friend group

a common enemy.

Thank it for

the virtual

high-fives and

the stupid quests.

Thank it for

your sanity.


Megan Moran is a sophomore English major at SUNY Geneseo. In her free time she enjoys reading, writing, and doing her Duolingo lessons.

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Kendall Cruise

Some of the Things that I Do Not Know:

How to make the blinds go down

the first time it is attempted;

the names of all the fifty states, their star-

studded capitals to match; what

kind of chemicals make soda

that crisp, why I should be

worried about it; all the ways

one can say hello,

all the avoidant ways to say

goodbye; the difference

between tan &

beige &

khaki; how

one wears white pants

successfully, ever;

the marvel of fingers, how they move

precise & punctuated;

when, exactly, pasta is cooked

the right amount, whether

Italians of the past cry

as I chuck spaghetti at the wall;

how to dress for the weather

without somehow being too hot or

too cold or

both, at the same time;

the witchcraft that allows someone

to look comfortable in any picture, ever,

even the ones you don’t know

are being taken;

the art of texting

without sounding like your grandma,

but also not boring,

but also not like I am maybe

mad at you (which I’m not!

I’m just in desperate need

to figure out the right tonal qualities

of a text & when punctuation

is appropriate, or

if it’s ever appropriate).

Some of the things I do know

for sure,

probably; depending

on who you ask

& whether or not they are in a forgiving mood:

that every morning

the birds outside my window sing;

there is no other way that I would choose

to be woken;

that I practically have to chase

my teenage brother out

of my room,

that he refuses to bug

anyone else in this way; people

in my life

come to me for advice,

for support,

even when I have no

prior personal experience because they know

it will still be given

with

great

care;

that thoughtful notes in cards

make me cry, even the seventeenth time;

that I didn’t tell

my colorblind grandfather

my birthday cake was

neon orange & blue, not

brown

(and that it could have been

highlighter green

& I wouldn’t have loved it

any less);

that there is love, here, right now, always;

if only you were to just reach your hands out

& grab it.


Kendall Cruise is a junior English (creative writing) and adolescence education major at SUNY Geneseo. When not obsessively revising their latest piece of writing, she can be found constructing hyper-specific playlists or on The Sims. They are a section editor for their college’s newspaper, The Lamron, and have been previously published in Gandy Dancer and Iris Magazine.

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Kendall Cruise

To The Weeds that Might be in…My Garden

I have not felt your fertilizer flesh

in months. It contrasts against the coldness
of the world when I open my window.

I know the sun sheds and the rain seeps in

to your veins and I will no longer have

to miss you. They think that you are trouble,

sucking life out of my once prized lilies.

Your roots are planted in my garden, and

moments of weakness have caused me to pull.

The lilies still come up every year, they

do still thrive in their own way. I now know

what the real prize is: to nurture. To nurture you

like you will one day be prized as lilies.

You, you, you, you, it’s you, it’s you, it’s you.

Me, me, in me, in me, in me, it’s me, it’s me.


Kendall Cruise is a junior English (creative writing) and adolescence education major at SUNY Geneseo. When not obsessively revising their latest piece of writing, she can be found constructing hyper-specific playlists or on The Sims. They are a section editor for their college’s newspaper, The Lamron, and have been previously published in Gandy Dancer and Iris Magazine.

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Madison Butler

I Got a Boo-Boo From a Car Crash

Car crash!

My head lies next to the roots

of a poor baby sapling

only a few years old.

My stomach forced between the car,

the road,

too long, too far,

two traveled.

My heart locked in the trunk

confined to the claustrophobia.

My eyes with God

watch the blood spill out,

the oxygen rises from

heaven to hell.

My body lies under him,

his blood flow

a river of rot

from head to toe

which lies on the brake.

Pieces lost,

forgotten,

never to be found

again.


Madison Butler is a junior studying early childhood education and English at SUNY Geneseo. Her poetry explores womanhood, mental health, and relationships. When she isn’t writing, she is spending time with her friends or doing something to express her creative side. 

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