Category Archives: Poetry

Mollie McMullan

Aphrodite’s Audience

Her plates look like minimalist paintings,

and I am left wondering

what kind of hunger is acceptable

She was born of Aphrodite’s shell but denounces her origins

Little bird,

if you are not beautiful

what does that make me?

At dinner, I think of stitched lips and pennied collarbones

I eat silence for dessert

and soak in the darkness of my dining room

My body is immortalized in my memories of her emaciation

She cries into her yogurt while I butter toast

The disgusting part of me

is envious


Mollie McMullan is a sophomore at SUNY Geneseo. In her work, she explores themes of patriarchal control, the role of womanhood, and the concept of permanence.

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Jaden Lynn

Lynn Honey

I have become the pet of my night class,

sharing my favorite part of a dead aunt’s name claimed mine—

clad in a corduroy jumper, fluttering hands

struggle through the make friendly part of beginnings.

All older than me, the others coo in the

hard plastic seats making room for the tiny girl with too big

dimples…I am now Lynnhoneyhowareyou.

They take me with them on their 15-minute breaks

to the Nabisco and Coke-sponsored vending machines in the building

next door. Do you drive yet Lynnhoney? Get rides

from my momma on her way home to the city. How do you get

there when she doesn’t come? They hover, make

me nervous like all the parents in the world suddenly turned their

overpowering rays of worry on me. Start sweating now.

Spend the night at my partner’s place sometimes. The Jew?

You mean the man who walks three blocks to carry my leather-bound bag

and my hand when I’m afraid to go there? Alone? I thought Jews

are more conservative about…that? You mean the lovely boy who

brushes my hair and thinks my voice is more important

then Plato and Shakespeare. I didn’t think that was serious? Just as serious

as the shea butter in his shower and my dent in his mattress.

Lynnhoney it’s just a little different, that’s all. Look at the girl

glancing off the windowpane. Look at the milky coffee skin. Smooth the edges and

kinky curls. Run my fingers against the smooth dark hair on my

tummy. See a mixed girl with a group of blond ghosts. I am different. You are

more beautiful than different, Lynnhoneydon’tworry, you are special.

The boys nod along to this apparent truth. The girls twist my curls and caress

my bright round cheeks.

I am more beautiful than different.

What happens when I am no longer beautiful, but just different?


Jaden Lynn is a biracial poet who finds writing to be her preferred escape from reality, along with an unhealthy obsession with Sour Patch Kids. She currently works as the editor-in-chief for a university literary magazine. She has been published in issues of Jigsaw, St. John Fisher’s Angles, and collections of Talented.

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Mollie McMullan

Lockdown Lockdown Lockdown

They speak of the lives of children as if they’re guaranteed

I think of babies born with crosshair birthmarks,

cherubs suckling at the mouth of a gun (formula is so hard to find these days)

being alive is enough of a fight

I speak of kevlar textbooks,

parents who learned to scrub blood from school uniforms,

thoughts and prayers

They think of mothers as expendable,

a mere body,

a husk bisected by birth,

a skin that can be shed

(I think of the morticians, the profit)


Mollie McMullan is a sophomore at SUNY Geneseo. In her work, she explores themes of patriarchal control, the role of womanhood, and the concept of permanence.

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Jocelyn Paredes

Crime Scene

Hugging the rusty,

white bathtub,

yellowed-toenail clippings.

In the kitchen sink,

dishes reeking of

sweat and seafood.

A mug, cold coffee,

left for dead.

A rancid, sour stench.

Lotion—white in

color, no fragrance,

not

particularly

sticky or thick

in texture—smeared all

over

every door knob

in the house. In the

closet, several

pairs of muddy

sneakers with their soles

ripped off.

Completely coating

the office desk,

what must have been a

dozen cans of

neon orange paint.

Hanging over

the window sill,

Shea Newman—

her stomach sliced

cleanly open, and

if you looked closely,

you’d have seen her

soul ripped out also.


Jocelyn Paredes is an emerging writer based in Long Island, New York. Currently, she is working to obtain her BA in English and writing at the SUNY Fredonia. Her work has been previously published in Gandy Dancer and her short story “Captured” received the Mary Louise White Fiction Award.

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Noah Rust

A Thruway Ramble

I wonder if I could build a house

out of the things on the side of a thruway.

The rocks by an aunt’s house,

shards of broken glass, spare tires, metal

from street signs, wildflowers, or those

from someone’s roadside garden,

panel tile of a sidewalk, a stuffed animal,

the wind stolen from a child’s grasp,

plastic grocery bags with red smiley faces

saying thank you, thank you, thank you,

bottle caps beside mismatched bottles,

an empty, grease-stained McDonald’s fry cup,

dog toenail clippings, PVC pipes from a

water park sold to a regular homeowner,

cigarette butts, shed snakeskin, a still

and disemboweled fawn, and every

other footprint we forget we leave behind.


Noah Rust is a senior studying creative writing at SUNY Oswego. Their poems “Groom” and “To Kill a Girl” have been previously featured in the Great Lake Review.

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Sebastian Nguyet Snow

Possible Instagram Followers

I ask myself to sigh as I remark / on your classic acrylic / Renaissance portrait / posts / with your fifteen thousand friends / or ghosts / cruising through Hawaii / Argentina / Laos / every horizon / every jungle / White girls are taught to find power / scribbled on the ticket home / I’ve never seen you faint / or beg / or even think for too long / Silence passes between us as old and gargantuan / as the Alps / No one can find meaning in my yearnings when they’re joyful / Is this why / I hate you? / Is this how / you did it? / Washed out Polaroids / party hats / in the trash / in the morning / Learn to leave the past alone / like the rest / of us / Please squeeze the napkin in your hands during family dinners / or excuse yourself to the bathroom / where you become a phantom / in the mirror / Please sing badly / or let your skirt fly up in public / or be cruel to me / just once / so I can mean it / Is it because you don’t like me / or like me / in an unspecial way / In the way I like your photos? / Blistered thumbs / Pink Emoji / Red Emoji / Smile With / The Eyes Emoji / Is it happiness? / In the why / rather than how? / Is it cisness / paleness / prettiness / the silken ivory / dress / that drapes / over you / Little house beside / the prairies / Little home inside / your heart / Boyfriended / Bewitched / Tongue / twisted / Is it because people / are dying / Cities are burning / Because I was late / for the bus? / I know / I’m not mentally ill enough / for my friends / not wounded enough / for my art / Not interesting enough / to make it past / my skin / chipped nails / and pile of laundry / But this is not about me / This is about you / And how I can’t stand you / and crave you / and think about you all night long / Curse you / to live a life / like the rest of us / Please / Drop your phone / in the ocean / Lose / your house / in a flood / Find another planet / Make it a better place.


Sebastian Nguyet Snow is a sophomore creative writing major. They were born and raised in Berkeley, California until they woke up at SUNY Purchase. When they’re not writing, they’re reading the same page of a book three times and drinking chai lattes.

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Sebastian Nguyet Snow

The Guilt Of Not Having Catholic Guilt

I apply to work at the Catholic school of my abuser

so I can take care of little boys like him, make sure they’re destroyed

through secular means

instead.

When my step father found out about my relationship,

he asked what kind of drugs we took together

I said,

“I don’t do drugs, I wasn’t raised Catholic.”

It’s true, I didn’t smoke until that boy had looked inside me

And I needed something to flush him and all that god worship out

to think of all the places I put my lips; on joints, plastic straws

and my very own curses.

To think of all what he wanted from me; what could he have possibly

wanted from God?

Jesus was a man once too, well, as much of a man as I am. Skin picked

elbows and pillow-soft cheeks. Tempted and tarnished.

When I didn’t get baptized, I started to float. Every chance I get

salvation, I end by drowning. Is that the point?

I might believe in Jesus if he had a shitty ex boyfriend. If he was alive,

I bet he would get cancelled on Twitter.

It would be for the better. We need less

Ex-Catholics and the colonizers we share in our Jesus-colored complexion.

I might believe in God if Saints were still criminals.

Even then, I’d still sell out to debauchery. Boys like me better when there’s something

new they can put into me. I did praise before I did prayer, and I’d

Do it all over again.

I apply to work at the Catholic school of my abuser,

so I can become the world he rejected. I want to be in a church

like a block party and surround myself

with people who will never find me.

I don’t believe in any man.

I might believe in Jesus.

If only because I understand

what it means to be worshipped

when all you want is to be trusted.


Sebastian Nguyet Snow is a sophomore creative writing major. They were born and raised in Berkeley, California until they woke up at SUNY Purchase. When they’re not writing, they’re reading the same page of a book three times and drinking chai lattes.

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Susan Romance

after the apocalypse

lavender breezes

cotton spurs

daisies grow through concrete.

i’ll cut up blacktop and

eat it for dinner

still smoldering. i’ll

hold your hand and

dirt will cake our fingertips.

i’ll make you a cherry pie

while you bury

the dead. all

in a day’s time.

find me a four leaf

clover and

make a sacred

wish. blood on the altar.

we’ll wash it away

with salt water and

lay ourselves to peace. all

in due time. let’s not

rush ourselves. let the world

breathe

again.


Susan Romance is a senior at SUNY Geneseo studying English with concentrations in creative writing and film studies. When on campus, you can find her writing poetry, playing Microsoft Solitaire, and chit-chatting with her friends for hours. After graduation, Susan hopes to study library sciences and become a librarian.

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Bryce Levac

Trans

plant

There once were three orphaned organs

that needed new homes

Two monkeys sit side by side, restrained

Good, he thinks

They will be of use

Heart, Kidney, and the Lungs

Kidney and the Lungs are placed in SCS for two days

Heart only has four hours,

maybe six depending on good behavior

Monkey 1 is aggravated

Monkey 2 is frightened

Both just as easily succumb to the anesthesia

Heart is then given a new home in Victor

Heart loves Victor, and Victor loves Heart

Tubes connect Monkey 2 to Monkey 1

Nourishing Monkey 1’s body and so/mi;ul/nd

Kidney and the Lungs reach day two

Kidney’s new home is Frank, the Lungs get Elizabeth

A scalpel separates the skin, arteries, nerves, and bone

That connect the monkey’s heads to their bodies

Monkey 2 dies in order to satiate Monkey 1’s brain

Victor’s heart now beats steady as a rock

Frank doesn’t have to worry where his waste goes

Elizabeth can breathe easier than ever

Monkey 1’s head is placed upon Monkey 2’s body

They wait for Monkey 1 to regain consciousness

When he awakes he is aggravated just as he was before

Monkey 1 cannot move Monkey 2’s body

Monkey 1 is put down

It was the ethical thing to do

What perfect pairs they make.


Bryce Levac is a creative writing major with a minor in English. He’s currently in his senior year at SUNY Oswego and plans on graduating in the spring of 2023. Along with writing, his interests include comic books, movies and video games.

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Savannah Meyer

Open Up Your Skull

The young girl—she was light

and breakable, like an insect. Body an artist’s mold.

He had to dig a hole fit for a chest.

So he could squash

the bug. A trail littered with blood and leaves.

Her screams make the dog bark.

Her hands torn from birch bark.

He continues his work by faint light—

heaving, grunting, slurring. It leaves

him tired and spent. He created a mold

of her perfect skull in his mind. It was firm. A ripened squash.

He would keep her in his chest,

close to his heart. A hidden chest,

buried under sheets of white bark.

But her face had become a misshapen squash.

Her skin purple and light,

bread covered in mold.

Under the birch trees, her throat full of leaves.

It pains him that this is how he leaves

her. He thinks about her deflated chest,

her lungs of black mold.

When he comes to visit her the dog will bark.

He studies her face, light

extinguished. Stomach gutted like a squash.

She will forgive him. For his thoughts—he had to squash

Down fall his tears. Down fall the leaves.

Her bones are light.

He digs his hands into her chest,

his skin like bark.

He will never be able to mold

her thoughts. The lichen on the trees is mold.

By bystander birch trees, a rotting squash

slept there. Under white bark,

and lifeless leaves.

A buried chest.

And then it began to become light

again.


Savannah Meyer is a junior creative writing major with a concentration in poetry at SUNY Purchase. She lives in the Hudson Valley and is a poetry editor for both Feral Feline Lit Mag and Italics Mine. Savannah is a mother to two tree frogs and loves to write about body horror and forests.

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