Category Archives: Poetry

Amy Middleton

Dead Ladybugs on my Window

At 4am my sweat-drenched sheets smell like you.

I’m jealous of the bugs because I can’t sleep

through a night. I’d grow an exoskeleton if I thought

it would help but I’m worried it’d just make me look fat.

Watered down coffee doesn’t wake me, it sits

heavy in my stomach wondering where you went-

together, we watch the sky turn white. A wall of

blackbirds come from across the street, all their wings

in sync, and they’re singing a song you once said reminded you

of me. One I could never remember the name of

but could always pick out if I heard it. Morning wanders

in quietly, careful not to glare in my eyes while I wash my mug.

Wet coffee grounds stain the sink- shades of brown

racing towards the drain- stuck in stasis, just out of reach.


Amy Middleton studies creative writing and graphic design at SUNY Purchase. She likes the color green, talking to bugs, and being called “Thursday.” Connect with her online at @thursday.poems.

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Ashley Hajimirsadeghi

Mad Girl’s Delirium

I wake up & check my pulse

to see if I’m still alive. There’s

all this talk about war and disease

and suffering, it’s spring now, but

I feel so cold. I cut my Baba’s

pomegranates, wince as the juice throbs

in my papercuts, feed the extra seeds to

my mother’s koi. Baba packs his Iranian art

away into a suitcase, I’ll never see it again.

I drop my sleeping pills in the crack between

the wall and bed, scrape my fingers against

the wooden frame. God, I just can’t sleep.

Knee-deep and alone in my mother’s pond—

algae hair burning, the water only a brief relief.

Too quiet, too still, I fall back and listen the crackle

of suffocated flames. I dream of arson to my

childhood home, pretend it’s an act of erasure.

I tug at my little nightgown, the wool heavy

under the night sky. I don’t feel lonely here,

floating with the koi. Frozen fingers caressing

the neck, feel the thrum—I’m still alive.


Ashley Hajimirsadeghi’s work has appeared in Into the Void Magazine, Corvid Queen, and cahoodaloodaling, among others. She is a poetry reader at Mud Season Review, attended the International Writing Program’s Summer Institute, and was a Brooklyn Poets Fellow. She can be found at ashleyhajimirsadeghi.squarespace.com.

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Kiel M. Gregory

The Language of Physics Between Two Bodies

Two stars dance about gravitationally; a beauty,

she says, in abstraction. Art in motion and in the

moments leading up to death; There’s something

beautiful, she says, in the movement of a thing

before it destroys itself. This happened somewhere

between three-and-a-half and six billion years ago,

and we’re just now able to know it—able, at least,

to see it—and those two dispositions somehow seem

at odds. The difference between seeing and knowing

has something to do with depth, belief, and

intimacy. How long has it been since we were truly

understood? When was the last time we could say

we were known, and have we ever loved? What

was it that we as stardust were here to do but dance?

 


Kiel M. Gregory lives in Sackets Harbor, NY, and studies English literature, philosophy, and creative writing at SUNY Oswego. His prose and verse appear in Lips, Paterson Literary Review, Furrow, Gandy Dancer, Great Lake Review, Black River Review, and elsewhere. In addition to writing, his interests include skydiving, cooking, and reading classic and contemporary speculative fiction. Connect with him online @kiel.mg.

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Daniel Fleischman

There is

a delicacy in a wine glass

being flung at a wall,

like a jet-propelled

butterfly. There is

some serenity to light

glinting, like fairy dust,

off curved glass,

like watching the sun

peek in between

trees on the highway,

the pulsing light wishing

you to sleep. There is

satisfaction in the crash

that resounds in your soul,

like an untamed child

playing an untuned piano

to an untold song

of smashing all the highest pitch

keys, following the urge you

resist. There is

peace in the pieces

of stardust that flutter

down the wine-sprinkled

wall. You’ve just watched it shatter

like my will

on center stage–silent

as I fall–leaving

behind the thud of shards

and footsteps as I hurry away.

There is.

 

 


Daniel Fleischman is a senior at SUNY Geneseo. He studies creative writing and biology because he believes salamanders are worth writing about, too. At home in Ossining, New York, he can be found running into spiderwebs as he daydreams in nature preserves or admiring his pet cocker spaniel.

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Daniel Fleischman

butterfly tattoo

My collar is starched, preserved and pinned to befit black tie. I sit on white upholstery, upholding

propriety the best I know how. Sweat collects on my shoulders as I shoulder what I so-call

sophistication. Sweat under suit jackets runs black as ink.

I sit and I glance as you dance.

You are turned away from my eyes, faceless,

a butterfly tattoo emblazoned on your back. Motion

proceeds relative to another body,

and I stay motionless,

lost in the flutter. Scapula form lepidoptera

wings that writhe with each twist and rhythm

to escape the confines of skin.

Wings     open     wide, on display, false eyes

      stare back with desire to fly, unrestrained

     by cutaneous          butterfly

nets. So     wings waft           effervescent,  up

     and down, push dust down,

rise up.     The reverse is true, too,            as the butterfly

flies:         push   breath   up,

     rise down.

Oscillation as it levitates,        ambivalent

      to hardwood dancefloor or high ceiling, indifferent

toward struggle     or ease, tumbling,

    crepuscular,

between fall and flight;

         shoulder blades and life.

 

 


Daniel Fleischman is a senior at SUNY Geneseo. He studies creative writing and biology because he believes salamanders are worth writing about, too. At home in Ossining, New York, he can be found running into spiderwebs as he daydreams in nature preserves or admiring his pet cocker spaniel.

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Hannah Fuller

CAN YOU LOVE THE SAME ON THE MOON?

you asked me to write you a poem. one where

it doesn’t hurt to read. you tell me too often i write

with grief as the main character. sadness and loss

as the supporting roles. you say my metaphor of love

as a gaping flesh wound is so unfair. we kiss. i write

you a poem. one where we end up together and

live out our forever on the moon. where there is

no fear, no grief, no oozing wound. where there is

a weightlessness. like how you hold my heart so it

doesn’t feel as heavy. like how a peach melts in

the sun and dribbles sickly sweet. i almost accept

this idea of love. almost move to the moon with you

and bounce around from crater to crater, knowing it

was never about the hurt; it was about the release.

until you leave. and my heart comes down with a

resounding thud and opens up, spilling black into

my chest. grief comes in and cleans the mess. i write

another poem. one where the moon doesn’t exist.

 


Hannah Fuller is a sophomore English (literature) and psychology major. When she’s not furiously scribbling away, she enjoys hiking and baking.

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Jenna Coburn

autophobe

i laugh without listening

and cancel all my plans

in black and white

dressing every windshield in dew

i dream of you in bars

in bars

i wake up wallowing

hollow

in all our distances and headaches

every day a virgin hangover

my dry eyes are roof tiles

in wait

for acid to come pouring

out of a cracked ceramic sky

umbrellaless

i cancel plans ’cause of my veins’

caramel sludge cravings ever

clear embers and

candy climbing tumbles

i crumple through the openings

of every suburban sliding glass door

to sear the acoustics of some stranger’s

morning cigarettes

make clouds

and disappear into vapor-burned valleys

i cancel plans ’cause the moon has been full for three months

and the atmosphere’s been seizing grandly

in time to my throat’s theatrics,

in time to the tics of my lighter’s

flickers and clicking calls

that won’t stop

’cause i don’t leave my bed

 


Jenna Coburn is a senior psychology major and English minor at SUNY Geneseo. She is from the Hudson Valley where she enjoys caring for her cacti, doodling, writing poems, and annoying her family via the guitar. This is her first published work.

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Claire Corbeaux

You don’t even live there anymore

We used to sit inside rhododendron

And leave our legs dangling

I used to sit starving on your couch

That was falling apart; that stuck to our

thighs and smelled like vinyl

While you reheated leftovers all alone

Even though you were just eight at most

We used to hurl ourselves into the bright

green chasm in your backyard

And we would sometimes sleep under the stars

You were my sister and your sisters were my sisters

and I wonder now if you all are still

Do we presently belong to each other at all?

How do I

combat the flux

The way time races

Like how the water

Would flood across the barnacles

we used to scrape our toes on

Was it all a pipe dream? To happen upon

artificial sisters who lived and loved in an

island of their own?

Who used to dance across a neck in a

minivan to buy their eggs

Why did we come apart and why did you

Let us; why did I?

I wouldn’t recognize your kitchen now

It’s renovated and there’s only one fridge

Instead of the unusual two

And cabinets.


Claire Corbeaux is a senior English (literature) major at SUNY Geneseo. She enjoys talking about interdisciplinarity to anyone who will listen, explaining the plots of her favorite movies in great detail, and daydreaming about the Long Island Sound.

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Jack White

Oil and Wine

 

Sunrise splinters from the willow tree.

October’s breath slept on your chest

before she woke and wound around me.

 

The grass fogs and forgets your tracks;

any records, scratches, or cracks

to stumble and fall for.

 

Thumb wiped on my shirt,

I point toward what hurts;

press and pry to come up.

 

You put me to bed and I shake.

Sunrise splinters and you

tell me I shake.

 


Jack White is a junior at SUNY Brockport studying English. He is from the small town of North Bangor, New York. He spends his time listening to music (specifically hip hop) and sleeping. When he is not doing either of those, you can most likely find him hyperventilating over the current state of the country, and using his Gandy Dancer bio to encourage people to go out and vote in every election they can.

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Jack White

Northern Gold

Call me dirt and gravel. Sunken

dew tickling a cracked bench.

Exhale my name into a cold

that drizzles and steams

against a morning’s unbending warmth,

brisk stone steps or the breeze that skims them.

Watch me through the dust of a cabin air,

tapping on a locked window and weeping into oak.

As I was in the morning,

I will be in the night.


Jack White is a junior at SUNY Brockport studying English. He is from the small town of North Bangor, New York. He spends his time listening to music (specifically hip hop) and sleeping. When he is not doing either of those, you can most likely find him hyperventilating over the current state of the country, and using his Gandy Dancer bio to encourage people to go out and vote in every election they can.

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